There Was Hope
by Sythrona
Summary: LOTR novel splice – a character from my own fantasy epic world meets mostly book-based Middle-earth. [Chapter 8: That’s right, now that we’re finally in Rivendell we’re going to be there forever. Short chapter, but the juice is coming.]
1. Default Chapter

**Title:**  There Was Hope – Oh, look, a triple meaning! Isn't that fun?

**Author:**  Sythrona (S.L.S. Rathford), just incase you were wondering.

**Summary:**  As death approaches Caliasar and eternal darkness evermore threatens her world, she wakes to find herself in another time of another land where one small group of people must try to save their world in a quest parallel to her own. As fear swiftly unfolds upon this strange realm she must fight her own emotions and doubts to decide what path her feet must walk, for to help those called the Fellowship of The Ring may decide the future of more than one world, and the destiny of time itself. (Spiffy, I know.)

**Disclaimer:**  Obviously I own no characters derived from the works of J.R.R. Tolkien under any of their titles. However, all characters, places, and most events associated with Destrahstia (The Destrahtus) are belonging to me. I'll not be bothering with the names of characters from Middle-earth that I've made up to fill space, but all such spoken about by Cali are mine.

**Okay, now the rest of this chapter is a little extra information for the picky and the paranoid. All others may (**hopefully**) continue on the read the fic (**don't make me beg**). Leave me pretty reviews and the great Spirits of Fanfiction will bless you forever!**

**Author's Note:**  Well, I'm certain you've all seen quite a few 'girl goes to Middle-earth' fanfics, but I'm also very certain that you haven't read one like this. You've probably all heard _that_ about a million times too, but this time I'm being serious. About eight years ago I began experimenting with character development. Over those years I have created a very colorful spectrum of characters and even extended my imagination to develop a world in which they could live and give life to one another. But one of my most favorite ways in which I develop already well-developed characters even further is by imagining their reactions to characters in other works of literature and film, and of course, the reactions of those characters to my own. Sometimes I find such interesting ways for this to take place that I can make a full story out of it that seems hardly the little game of mine that it is. Seeing how largely extensive The Lord of The Rings already is, and seeing all of the blank space that Tolkien skims over between events, in which almost anything could have happened, it's no surprise that I managed to come up with something that's a bit more than a few hellos in my experimentation. So just incase a few other people might like what I'm beginning to write, I decided to post my fused story. Where it goes in the end is largely up to any reviews that I might (**please!**) receive, including whether any romance is involved or not. Hopefully the means for my chosen character's appearance in Middle-earth is explained enough by her. This could end up being a very long fanfic, I dare say.

**Reader Warning:**  I am starting my tale with the book, mostly because I'm still angry with Arwen, but I do plan to mesh in the movies where I can and especially where Tolkien leaves me hanging. But I do warn you, the sudden appearance of one of my characters, especially Cali, would most likely change quite a lot about the story. Even so, I am taking a little liberty of my own with the plot. Forgive me, but if you can't handle it then please don't read it. I didn't change anything _that_ much.

Cali does mention, quite faintly and several times, the occurrence of reincarnation. If you don't like it, tough monkeys.

I do portray elves as being more surprised about Cali than other characters, and it might make them seem rather un-elf-like at times. But remember, most of the elves that she comes in contact with are older than dirt itself, and something like her suddenly appearing out of the blue would shake anyone's ideas about their world. And I do believe that elves think they have it all figured out. What a shock when they're wrong! -snarf- I also portray them as being somewhat child-like. As I read the books, I gather a somewhat juvenile sense about elves. Kill me if you didn't, but I did. A person couldn't really grow up the whole way and be immortal, or all of the elves would be like whacked-out Greek gods. It's the truth. Also a good thing to note: elves do not know everything, and they do not have all the answers. They have to make guesses sometimes too.

Cali may seem to shift her behavior a lot, but she does have a spilt personality, ya know, so get over it. I _am_ trying to develop her better with this, thus the point of writing it.

This story also goes along with the idea that at all times there are millions of separate times, separate 'heres' and 'theres' and 'todays' and 'yesterdays' and 'what-could-have-beens' going on at the same time in different 'dimensions' or between different 'lines of truth/time'. Like the folds of a cloak, these separate planes of existence overlap each other in some places. It also goes along with the idea that a very perceptive person can step into them when their consciousness leaves their assigned world (the 'here' that they are supposed to live in), including when in deep dreams or actually unconscious. The theory is that a person who does this will appear in another plane of existence as they think themselves to look, not as they truly look, and not as they wish or hope that they look. This may mean that a person who has not yet seen or otherwise acknowledged new injuries will not have them in this other world. As well, if they die in this other place, they will die in their own world, and vise-versa. But they may be trapped in this other world until they accomplish some destined feat. It doesn't matter how long they are gone from their world, as all events that take place in this other world, sometimes spanning over years, can be crammed into the time of a second in their own world. It is often said that when the person who had breached the gap returns to where they should be, the time in which they were in this other plane will be rewound and relived without them, as the patterns of time cannot let them interfere. Another theory states that time will simply try to tie up the loose ends, even if it has to try to kill the intruder while he or she is still there. But all theories seem to say that the intruder will not remember what happened, though a faint glimmer may be left in their mind and the minds of those that they became close to. It is a little freaky, and if I just lost you, don't worry. Cali will do a better job of filling you in.

And remember, there is more than one kind of sight, and more than one kind of vision, and more than one kind of eyes, and more than one kind of light, and more than one kind of darkness… Nothing is as it seems, or is it? Nothing happens without a reason, or does it? -shivers-

Okay, now that I've thoroughly bored you, you may choose whether or not to read on. Have fun!


	2. Awoken

Chapter 1:  Awoken 

Okay, now this first chapter is mostly about Cali, and yet during it you don't actually get to know anything about her unless you are *very* quick. This part of the story goes really fast, because most of it is a flashback and she doesn't really remember the whole ordeal. If you see words and/or names that you don't know, don't worry, Cali will explain them later. Just think of it as if you are a person from Middle-earth. She'll have to tell you things herself if you're ever going to find out. And no, she is not an elf. She wouldn't really look anything like one at all. -sigh- By the way, _shaqurael_ are small, thin metal disks with three blades. The name means "throwing star." Just thought you might like to know! I hope you'll like this, but it is a little complex at first. Oh well, enjoy!

***

_"This was the manner of existence in those days, that all was consumed within the endless Void and all breath and beat of heart was not yet conceived…"_

Images flickered between vision and the Void. The air was wet with fear and strung with tension, so thick it seemed to hinder all movement. Yet they ran – they flew, and darkness pursued. The horses were tiring, their hooves showering sparks unto the unforgiving stone, every sound magnified with their horrified yearn for silence. But the others needn't have run.

_"In the beginning, the great spirits called the Ainur were bidden by Eru, the One, to create great music, and out of the music came a vision like a globed light in the Void…"_

The darkness pursued only her – and the land was strange to her eyes. The waters roared their deadly course so near, but in mist and blackness none could tell where the river cliff became.

_"All voice was the thought of One and all matter of great confusion…"_

Screams like venomous ice and eternal night pierced her taunted consciousness, evil wings upon the air blinding her senses and bleeding the eve of its last light. And suddenly, the earth was no longer before her. Stone, slick with mud and spray from the churning falls, left all of her to its pitiless mercy. The turn was too urgent, and the horse too worn.

_"Into this world they brought many things of beauty, but also there was strife:  one of the mightiest among them rebelled, and there was war."_

All control was lost as they slid to their final doom. Her name was called, but she could not hear for the wicked pound of blood against her skin, and the roar of death below. All the world was thrown upside-down as the weight of her horse turned over her, and the nothingness of inverted sky opened up before her eyes. The overwhelming sense of falling left her with no words but a gasp, an utterance of pure awe.

_"And there was evil…"_

Cold enveloped her body and rushed against the blockade of her warmth. No breath would stir in her lungs – all feeling tore her in two with unknown pain that should have come by now, and yet peace lingered with fear. She was growing numb, and soon felt nothing at all, but _knew_… And her vision flickered once more.

_"And there was death…"_

Swathed in soundless falling she awaited the splash, the acknowledgment of the world returned to her in all of its wrath. But there was none. There was only broken memory. And in that forgotten passage into forgotten time there dwelt the word that had been called to her as she fell, the word that seemed the key to her awakening. Toward her formless savior she strove through darkness and evil dreams, death picking the locks of her mind as it grew in hunger for her soul.

_"But there was Hope."_

"_Caliasar!_" the word tolled in the distance, unheard when it was uttered. It was the line cast for her to hold as her being flew to death, the rope thrown to stop her fall. _What memories of this strange day?_ The thought seemed foreign to her, and yet more of her than arm or foot or hand. _What words do I speak? What wicked memory…_ The weight became unbearable with a sudden rush of cold, and shocked once more into life from her suspended dream she let pain overwhelm her thoughts in return that she wouldn't scream. Her eyes, changeable as water, wind, and sky, flew open as she gasped to life, and found herself dying. Pale light glistened over the shimmer of a silken veil. Thrashing toward the sallow radiance she surfaced from the water's grave.

Caliasar watched the world spin around her as she burst her lungs with the hungry drinking of air. She foundered again in the crystal pool as she tried to stand, and it took a moment until her vision began to clear when at last smooth stone caressed her feet. She was in a gentle river that had widened into a shallow pool where an outthrust of the bank had gathered a dam. Glancing upriver rather painfully she saw, to her dismay, that it was broad but far too shallow for her to have drifted down it. The pool that she stood in was no more than three feet in depth, and yet compared to the rest of the river it seemed like an ocean. Her eyes turned about, but sickness overcame her and she retched, though her stomach had nothing to give. Quickly deciding that water was not her friend at the moment, she clambered to shore as swiftly as she dared, and threw herself down on the earth.

The smell and the feel of it was heavenly. Stretching argumentative muscles she could not help but let a smile creep over her lips as she gazed up at the dark canopy. It shimmered with the wind, pinpricks of starlight and moonlight dancing between the singing leaves. But with the weight of death her predicament fell suddenly to her mind once more. As happy as she was to simply be alive and on solid ground, there still remained the matter that she had fallen off of a cliff into a ragging river – a ragging river that had cut into the land like a jagged knife and lead only to a waterfall that, to her memory, churned over fatal rock. And yet she had awoke to find herself in a gentle, almost pleasant pool of water formed by a river that couldn't do much more than carry a few leaves, the odd twig – maybe even a small stick (if there had been some rain, which there had). At least that was what she thought had happened. Could it have been a dream?

_"…and the kingdom of Valinor was made in the Undying Lands of Aman…"_

Pursing her lips, Caliasar could not think of a time that she had wanted to throw a rock at that blasted voice in her head more than now. Random whisperings of the earth bled into her mentality like bitter well-being, though at the time it felt more like sweet poison, and that _was_ disconcerting. At any rate, she knew she wasn't anywhere near where she was supposed to be, even if that idea did seem a bit better than it should have.

Making the naive mistake of closing her eyes, the woman's vision was swiftly assaulted with images of water churning over stone, and her own blood tainting the flume along with that of her horse. Gasping Caliasar struggled to focus as the nausea of falling slowly subsided once more. She clutched at her side were a great rent should have been and an evil ache still lingered, but her fingers found none. Nor did she find the new bruises that should have been her prize, though older complaints of the like reminded her dully of their presence. Sighing in her distress, she heaved herself up and looked around again, more slowly this time.

A glimmer of memory that was only a sense of remembrance and no true picture flooded her veins. As she let her eyes sweep over the forest about her, she was certain of both that she was indeed in another strange land, and that this had happened to her before. The trees about were of a breed unknown to her eyes, and as she lighted her hand upon their smooth skin she was overwhelmed with their incoherent song. These voices were not in the least like those of her beloved home. The air, and the earth, and the stones at her feet sang also, but their voices were of a language that she could not recognize. Letting the mortal constraint of her flesh sink away, she bent her consciousness both far and wide. Listening she saw the river join its larger course, and beyond that there lay many things, all seeming confused by some shadow of fear. The winds told her feelings of nothing but toil and dying hope, and a fell mist that she dared not challenge. Sighing her reluctance to return to her pains Caliasar let herself be crammed once more into the body of a woman.

She would find no rest in any place while the twisted and broken fragments of her memory still fought perception. The river led somewhere, though where she might never know if she didn't take more care. At least, if she followed it, she would not get herself lost, and not walk in too many circles. At that, a larger river meant more chance of a town, or at least the rumor of civilization. She didn't appear to have much of a choice. Slipping her boots off she let her aching feet take comfort from the damp soil, and absently chaffed the ancient leather to keep it from hardening – one boot held under her elbow while she bloodied her fingers and a small stone with the other. All the while she searched in vain for any sign of a road, a path, even a clearing in the foliage, the trickling of water at her side seeming like cruel laughter. Normally her love for water was great enough to draw her into it, but, today at least, it seemed ever less inviting.

***

The night was young, and it was many hours before she found the larger river and took up her new course. The area about became steadily rockier, like the land from which she had come, and Caliasar began to doubt that she had indeed traveled into any separate plane, though she new it was naught but folly. This world did not even speak her language, and this fear that she had flown to was not the fear that she had left behind. And when her horizon was smote with a boldly arched bridge, she knew that she was correct. No man or beast would build such a thing in the wilds of Einainor, from whence she had come. 

And yet, a bridge! Why build a bridge if not for a road? The thought seemed both promising and yet so very anxious. Scaling the bank she breathed the freer air with a sigh and cast her eyes over the sodden earth, still drying after a rain that had washed away much soil not so long ago. But there, it was a suspicious track. The feet of a man had passed this way, and with him three small children. One led a pony, and all were laden with heavy steps. Unless they carried much indeed, the pony bore a rider. It seemed odd to her evermore so as she continued to play with the thought in her mind. But a man and his children would make as good a meeting as any other, if not better. Of course, she would most likely get no food from them, but at least a man leading a brood of young ones about would be more likely to tell her where she was, and where she could go. She could always hunt if need drove her to it. 

And then Caliasar smacked her forehead in anguish as she felt for her bow and found none. "Of course, you half-wit!" she yelled at herself in desperation. Of course! No bow, no pack, no knife, not even the sword! She pondered a moment at the last thought of her list and could not decide if that, at least, was for the better or the worse. All that she had was her staff and a single _shaqurael_ that she had tucked into a fold in her clothing, and not if hunger drove her insane would she hunt with either, if it was even possible. Of course! All of them were lashed to her saddle save the sword, and she had not yet become use to the thought of carrying it. She shivered then, and sighed. So she _had_ wandered through the lines of time – how perfectly wonderful. And now she would starve.

Yes, now her life was in the hands of this small band of travelers as they made their toiling way – to where? It didn't matter much to her mind as she lingered on the idea of being without her bow. That was a sorry turn indeed! Clenching her teeth she pulled on her boots (now supple once more) and took off at a brisk walk, not wishing to miss any sign of _any_ living thing. The night was wearing on, and the moon fell low upon the horizon. Darkness soon took hold. Morning was not far.

***

Not far indeed, she later thought, as the miles crept under her feet. The small company had left the road once across the bridge, as soon as they had been able, which seemed very strange. They had taken no path, but plunged strait into the wilderness as if they bore a fear of being pursued. It had not taken Caliasar long to decide not to follow their new path. She found more chance in meeting someone on the road than in following the little band of travelers. Besides, seeing the country round about, she was almost certain that they would be forced to return to the road. Not to mention that she would probably become lost while trying to find them if it rained, which the now dreary sky above very much threatened.

But at last pale light began to throw shadows to the backs of carven stones and gnarled trees. The company before her must have had more time against the road than she had thought. Glancing off into the distance she watched the mists curve in their slow dance about the earth, and with them made a rhythm of her breathing and the steady beating of her heart. The world was cold and lonely, and she had never felt more wretched. The ruins of great towers frowned at her in the ominous light, all the world seeming dead. Yet the promise of day, even this pale, sunless day, seemed enough a reason to hope, if only to keep herself from despair. But by now even she was growing very weary. 

And even as she thought these things the music of her own fine instrument was joined by the melodies of another. At first the sound was far too soft to be noted around her plaguing worries, but soon she blinked with surprise as the ringing sound of bells came to her ears. The sound was fair, and her feet ceased to move more swiftly than she had ever thought was possible. But with a shake of her head she came back to her mind and quickly leapt into the bramble that lined the ancient road. There she found a small thicket of trees from which she could watch the fate of her follower. The sound of hoof beats strengthened with a swiftness that could only come from great haste.

It seemed a moment bred of all eternity, though it was but a few minute's wait. Doubt and hope filled her and then were drawn away by anticipation, then returned. The sound was not evil, nor dark in any way, but her vision was not so used to this place that she could look upon the traveler from afar and see his heart, not until her senses became used to the affliction of this foreboding confusion. What words did one say to a person of this world? And what response would any word of hers receive?

And then from the corner of her obscure sight she saw a light glowing radiant, and felt power moving towards her astride the steady beat of some otherworldly beast. A lord of this earth was approaching, though his kind she could not tell. And the dim light of the morn met her with the comprehension of her advantages. What fortune was in this meeting! Far more than in any lowly man and his brood. Such a figure of great knowledge and power was he that approached – from him she could gain what understanding she might need to hold this world within her sight, for clarity of her misted mind was sought as much as fleshly aid. She drew herself to her fullest height, learning calmness from the silent rock about, and cast the cloak of her truth abroad the vale, forgetting the worries of her heart as all of her presence was thrown forth. 

Caliasar was not truly beautiful in all of her outward appearance, but to this one who thought he knew the creatures of his world so well, she was unknown and mysterious, and beautiful in no way that he would ever see again. For there was no creature in any world but Destrahstia as those of her mother's kin, whose face was their gift to her in birth. Nor was there any replication of the mighty Trithaleians of whom her father came, whose changeable gray eyes had been intensified by her own wisdom and power. To all of those who had never seen the Nalain, even she seemed an image of mistempered beauty made wild by life's teachings that were so etched upon her eyes with a soulful vastness that none could withstand. It was her only weapon, and her only tool by which to survive. There were advantages to being of the elder races and the young. The land about quickly received her ancient presence as their own, and with that, she was made a part of this world. To what end would it take her?

Suddenly came a white horse, gleaming in the shadows, swift of lengthy stride. His harness flickered as if set with gems like living stars. The rider's cloak streamed about him, and his hood was thrown back, golden hair flying with his pace. It seemed to her that a white light was shinning through the form and raiment of the rider, as if through a thin veil. Sighing to retain her peace, Caliasar stepped forward from the gloom. 

The great horse was reined in as he passed, and the rider's eyes looked to the thicket where she stood. Awe lit his face, and wonder at what sight he must have seen. Stepping again to be free of the wood's depth she let her feet fall to the might and grace of her natural stride. Seeing him now left her no will for pretending to be some lost damsel in any manner, should even the thought have come to her mind. Surly it would do her more harm than any other thing. And yet she alone, with neither glamour nor spell, seemed to rivet his gaze. And it was then that she realized how truly strange she must have looked to him.

His ears were of a point, but not much of one. He was fair, but no bright lord like those of her mother's kind. He was tall, too tall to be of the Elendrith (if even they could match his fairness with their ancient, so visible endurance), but not so tall as her grandsire, nor any man of the Nahalain. He was powerful, but not so powerful as many that she had seen walking the earth of her own lands. And there was urgency on his mind, now halted to ponder at her existence. There seemed a cynical gleam in his eyes, but she was yet far from him by much more than the measure of distance.

A stream of words in a remarkably beautiful and strange tongue fell from his lips, but seeing that they had no effect on her, he then spoke in another language – which oddly enough she _could_ understand. "Hail, my lady, from what house do you call?" His voice was like a melody far more striking than the bells of his steed's harness, once he had found the words to speak.

Smiling within, Caliasar let her hands drift over the knotted limbs of withered trees, and watched the confusion of questions that swirled behind his porcelain face with soft amusement. He must have made himself believe that she was of his own kind. Coming to his horse's side with no hindrance nor further notion form either man or beast, she glanced up at him with all of a desolate sigh in her eyes, though in them, it seemed, thrived all of the universe.

"I doubt that you would know of it, my lord."

He blinked down at her with a bemused lift of his brow. "I am certain that I would, my lady." His eyes seemed to plore her every feature, trying to reassure himself that she was not so strange a thing as she seemed.

Glancing away down the road with a wicked curl in her lips Caliasar tried to strike down the urge to further confuse this creature, and yet, she _had_ to answer him somehow. "I call from many houses, lord," she returned her gaze to him, smiling softly as she could. "Of my mother's side I come from the house of Nimwardinain, a great kingdom of the Nahalain. There I am the daughter of a princess. Of my father's side I come from the house of Threrein, the last king of the Trithaleians, for they took no land as their own. There I am the daughter of a noble warrior. But that is far behind me, as both races are forever gone from my earth. And I hale from the land Destrahstia, lord. It is by far a world away." At that she could not help but laugh, as quietly as she could force.

He looked almost stupefied as he searched his mind for the names that she had given. "I know of no such lands – perhaps you come of a strange language? These houses bear no other names?"

She shook her head slightly. "In no language that you would know, I fear. I am not of this earth. See, and understand my words, great lord!" With that she touched his hand with her own. He stared at her, amazed, and she continued, "I am called Nemonlyna, but with the death of my past I have become Caliasar. Call me this, if you should give me a name."

"Truly –" he began, but then gained control of his thoughts once more. She smiled, knowing that he would deny the feeling of that touch of her hand for a very long time. Such a creature should be able to tell by her aura alone that she did not belong there, and yet this kind seemed always so willing to battle such ideas and make her of their understanding.

"To where do you journey?" he said then.

"I go to any land where this road may carry me," Caliasar almost snorted. _Wherever that is…_

"You go to the Ford of Bruinen, then, and bear some message to Imladris?" He almost seemed relieved to have found a justification for her presence, though he still seemed troubled, not wishing to linger.

If it would get her to a village, then, why not? As if she truly had a choice. "Yes, I journey hither, though I do not know the way."

"I search for a small company that has passed this way before you, and I am in need of great haste. But I will gladly bear you there if you will it, though the journey may not be so fair as it would, if times were not so dark. You must come with me now, for evil pursues. I am called Glorfindel, Lady – Caliasar."

He botched her name with his accent enough to make her laugh. But then, to a man named Glorfindel, of all things, her name must sound _truly_ strange. As for evil, what else was new? "I do not look for comfort in any journey during these latest days, master Glorfindel. But I thank you greatly."

He held out his hand, rather reluctantly, and she cocked an eyebrow in amusement. He actually thought to carry her on his knee! "Forgive me, lord, but I have had many opportunities to become wary of riding a horse as of late," she said, and with that leapt up and swung herself astride behind his saddle. He glanced back at her as if she had just said that a cow had jumped over the moon. Even the horse seemed surprised, though he was most likely just picking up on his rider's emotions.

"As you wish…" he sounded truly perplexed, but nonetheless moved his horse once more into a trot. Most of all he seemed uncomfortable having her arms around his waist, though of course, she reflected, he had not thought it so wrong for him to carry her around that way. Sighing she let herself sink into the fluid dance of the horse's muscular quarters, taking renewed calm from his rhythmic movement. So far the only sane creature that she had come across as of yet had four legs and a white fur coat.

Before long Caliasar realized that in no way would she fall off of this horse, no matter what should cross their path, and let her arms fall to stroking his fluid fur. She couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for making this Glorfindel so uncomfortable, but looking back on her own predicament she felt less inclined to worry about his sensitivities. Nevertheless, she let a moment pass before she spoke up again.

"To where do we travel, did you say?" she said then and flinched, remembering that she was supposed to know where she was going. "I was told only find the Ford. This land is strange to me," a small lie. She _was_ looking for the end of the road.

"To Imladris, my lady," he said, seeming more collected now, too lost in thought to note her check.

"Imladris…" she rolled the word over her tongue slowly. Such outlandish names!

"To Rivendell."

"Rivendell?" It struck a bit more of a meaning in her head, but only worked to make her more curious. "A city?"

He smiled, but did not look back. "A house."

"A house of what?" Caliasar murmured to herself, but he seemed to have heard anyway.

"The last homely house, the House of Elrond, who is great among both elves and men. I dwell there also, for my part."

_Elves?_ Her eyebrows arched with a surprise that couldn't decide between amusement and amazement. "Men" was okay. But _elves_? "Then you are also – an… elf?"

"Yes," he replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Then I am truly in Valinor – in Aman?" she breathed, remembering the soft murmurings of the earth.

At that he froze completely for a moment, before looking back at her with pure astonishment written clearly on his every feature. "No, my lady. You are in Middle-earth."

***

**Recap: **Caliasar begins to wake sometime after sliding off of a small cliff while being chased. She had saved herself by knotting a rope around her horse's bridle, cutting the leather, and catching it on a rock. But she let too much slack and, as she fell down a waterfall, was slammed into the rock behind it. As she battles for life and consciousness she must find some Truth to cling to in decision as to where she would end up – dead, alive, or somewhere else. Words describing the beginning of her world and another flicker alternately into her mind as well as images of what had happened. She remembers hearing someone call her Comnarmian name (her real name is Nemonlyna) and clings to it. So why did she end up in Middle-earth? (oh, freaky…)

We set our scene in a small tributary to the river that flows under the Last Bridge. Glorfindel has passed the bridge some days ago, and Aragorn, leading the hobbits, is not far over it. Caliasar follows the river to the bridge during the night and walks the road toward the Ford of Bruinen. She is between the two as Glorfindel returns. He finds her in the early morning, and they will meet his query that evening.

See that pretty button? The one that says "review?" It's a nice button. It does great and wonderful things. Press that button. That button is your friend.


	3. Drawn of Ice

Chapter 2:  Drawn of Ice 

For all of those who thought that I made Glorfindel sound like a stupid little human, how dare you! -pets him- My elf! Oh, sorry, I meant to say that I've also written his side of the story. I realized somewhere between 3:00 and 6:00 (a.m. that is) that you would only get a good description of Cali from other characters, as she doesn't really care too much about her actual _appearance_. Not to mention that she doesn't see other characters very well yet, because she is getting some very confused vibes from this place, which, of course, was why Glorfindel seemed so "mortal" to her. Yes, she is very old - probably not as old as Elrond, but definitely older than Legolas. But, just because I love him so much, I'll let Glorfindel have this one. It _is_ a bit of rewriting, but he's – I mean – it's worth it. Enjoy!

***

It had been strange, he would remember in times far afterward, entering that vale as the morning awaited dawn, so pale and solemn in sunless light. The land was yet shadowed with the lingering memory of darkness, and all the world seemed silent to even his elvish ears. There was no trace to be found, neither on nor by the rain washed road, and yet – there was a presence there that seeped into his consciousness like a shadow slipping toward the horizon as evening turned to night. The crumbling foundations of mortal works round about seemed to ring with the acknowledgment of some new thing that his mind could not conceive. The stone had forgotten all memory of its molders, and yet it spoke of life, and what life! But for all certainty, there was no evil born upon the air but far behind, where five at least were pursuing him.

To his eyes the mist had seemed far thicker than it had before, and for a moment he considered this when from afar his eyes caught a shimmer and a light so pure and broad that even his horse did not require the hand that he set to his rein. The mist indeed was a great luminescence, all lit with the slender form that steadily materialized from within the forest shroud. It was a woman, he noted with much surprise, some elvish maiden drawn up from stone and water and ice. Blinking he let his confusion surmount, and realized that she was truly of flesh and blood, her luminescence but an image of his own amaze. She was both ancient and in many ways perceptive, so very wise, and with her dwelt great power. But then again he blinked and she was but mortal – and yet so clearly not. And then again she was pure, dangerous thought, and then a lowly vagabond. There was no truth to her, and yet in all of that bleak land she seemed the only truth. All ambiguity was with her, in her very stride.

His awe now diminished as much as could be, the great elf-lord Glorfindel at last found his voice. What wonder and astonishment could be sown into any language of man or beast? He greeted her in the speech of his people, but she merely smiled and continued her broad, yet strangely graceful approach. Now truly lost he probed his mind for some definition for this creature. She did not know the languages of elves? If she was no great elven lady, then how indeed had she come upon him without notice? The common tongue found his voice and he spoke once more.

At this she had reached his side. Why he had not dismounted, even he could not seem to name with any word but surprise. At once she began to speak, unaffected by his discourtesy, and once understood of her outlandish accent he found her voice most fair.

At that, fair was the only word to describe her, who called herself Caliasar. Caliasar – even her name seemed an indefinite mystery. Fair indeed! Her hair was the hue of the moon waxing coldly over winter snows, and she had mountains of it, all the texture of a horse's tail. It was very long for the most part, though it hung at a thousand different lengths as if it had been torn and cut and pulled for centuries. Her skin (in all of its ageless, porcelain design) rivaled the pale sun as she rose through the great mists of even that peculiar morn. But still that did not fully suit her, for even in her fairness she was dark as a clear summer's eve, and yet not truly seeming dark at all. 

She was clad in a gray tunic whose long sleeves seemed almost to have been re-sown to her skin. Dark breeches clung to her legs, with tall leather boots that were very creased with age. But over all she wore a white gown that must have been very beautiful at one time, long ago. Its few thin skirts were all torn at jagged angles and slits, as were the long, sweeping sleeves, which had been lashed up at her elbows. Blood had dried on it and been washed away, though the stains of it could not be erased. Her middle was wrapped with what seemed alike to an outer corset, of a gray, woolen quality, which seemed the only thing that held the ragged pieces of her attire together.

True, she was not so beautiful as any elven maid, though with another beauty she was great in wealth. She was tall in stature as she was in presence, not so long legged as she was simply – tall. Her stomach was rounded by a drum of muscle, taut sinew molding her skin at every simple motion that she made. She was utterly slender in every sense of the word, with none of the softness of a fairer woman. At the moment she was rather frazzled in appearance, as if she had recently been in water. And most disconcerting of all, her ears did indeed come to a point, much harsher and taller than the point of any elven ear, though not in any way as unbecoming as the ear of a goblin. 

And at last he now knew what had been the shimmer that first caught his eyes. She was arrayed with the jewelry of a thousand cultures, all unknown to his long memory. There was none to be found on her long fingers, which were laced with blood, but on her wrists and about her neck there were many rings, and yet none seemed to make a sound as she moved. Four rings pierced her ears – a silver in each lobe and both a silver and a bronze in the arch of her left ear. Now lashed to her back with a dark leather fastening was a wooden staff, no more than two feet in length. But at each end there was a curved blade of a foot's extent at least. What possible meaning such outlandish things could have he did not even care to know. Prepared to think her ugly, he suddenly met her gaze.

What universe could thrive in such a vast well of sheer nothingness and yet such utter fulfillment? Lit by her eyes she seemed suddenly more beautiful than any of the brightest stars that had ever graced the darkened skies, and the strange names that she had listed to him seemed suddenly relevant in all of her intense gaze. He knew every one in her sight, for all thought was truly beyond him. What color were her eyes? Like the sky they were ever changing, ever evolving with her every thought. 

It was then that she touched his hand, seeming frustrated that he could not conceive some notion that she was trying to express. In her skin there was all estrangement, all un-belonging that had ever coursed a living vein. He could feel it pulsing there with every beat of her heart, and with every beat of her heart becoming less – becoming more of his world. What feeling her alienation brought to him was so much to comprehend it seemed certain to burst the mind. What hidden truth lay just beneath her belying skin? For being touched by the surface of that great well, he knew that in the depths there waited some great awakening, so assailed by darkness and uncertainty that his own proud troubles found in her existence seemed suddenly alike to a coward's reason in slaying himself.

What danger and what peace could dwell at once together? What purity could grow as even darkness so pressed? What life could be so beautiful while blood stained its hands? What wicked intent could seem a jest and be nothing more? What soft word could strike more fear? What utter darkness could shed such light? What cold fire could consume all that delved too deeply into the endless arts of her eyes?

"Truly –" Glorfindel said then, but quickly was lost for all words. What word indeed did you say to such a strange and wonderful creature? Struggling for clarity he turned from her eyes, and was then overwhelmed with the remembrance of their peril. With his last remaining courtesy he let all emotion fall away once more to ask were she would go. But of course, any word that she spoke would be a lie, and he could not let himself wonder yet if he would be ever able to forgive himself for forcing her to do such a deed. And yet, she seemed to know his ploy, and quickly played along. Her soft laughter was like to the sound of rain strumming ancient bells. No matter what confusion she cast upon his mind, he could not simply leave her there while five of the nine still followed.

That moment, he later supposed, was his first lesson of the being named Caliasar. Ignoring his hand she swung astride behind him, speaking some odd word of being wary to ride. She seemed unworried by his mentionings of evil, and more amused that he would treat her as he would an elven woman.

"To where do we travel, did you say?" she seemed swift to forget her tale, though she quickly corrected her words. But he heard none of it, wondering what upset her sudden appearance would cause among the peoples of Middle-earth. His reply was immediate once jogged back into his present, no longer fearing her hunger for knowledge and clarity. But he was in no way prepared for her reaction to the word "elf." After the melodic list of words that she had lost upon him, Glorfindel could hardly understand how such a word would cause her such wonder.

But it would cause him by far more wonder still, for then this so entirely foreign creature uttered words that would set the minds of all elven-lords reeling with the growth of a thousand un-askable questions. Astride his horse, so near behind him, sat a being of endless wonders and so many faults, who thought that she was in the Undying Lands.

And yet, there was something else, and on its long-calloused scar he could not place a name. And at that moment, the sun broke the rim of the world, and in the endless succession of time it was day once more. 

***

**Recap:** Short chapter, I know. But, as you can see, Glorfindel was simply confused about her sudden appearance, and he _can_ tell that she doesn't belong there. Normally Caliasar would be able to notice this, but she can't. This world is too new to her, and she has yet to come to terms with the idea of meeting an elf. In her world, elves are only heard of in legends. But give her time – she is already starting to get the feel of the land in her, and you'll note that both can tell that she is being drawn into the reality of Middle-earth. Expect this reaction in its many variations. No, Glorfindel is not in love. In my opinion, elves are very easily moved by things that make them struggle to comprehend, or things that they don't expect. Just a notion for ya. Hope you liked it! Maybe now that ya know what she looks like we can get on with the story. -waves tiny flag- Yes, she has white hair. Not just colorless hair – white hair. Many Nahalain (her mother's people) do. Mwahaha.

*cough*Review*cough*


	4. I'm Doomed

Chapter 3:  I'm Doomed 

Thank you so much! I'm glad to know that someone else likes the progeny of my boredom. This chapter was supposed to go up last night, now the night before last, but I decided to rewrite it and make two out of the original. I hope I won't be ruining the story with the direction that it seemed to be taking now, but Cali can't be swayed. It's all evil – good. It's all _good_. -glances both ways- Ok then, now back to the road! Let's see how much I can remember out of the books.

***

"Truly then, you are elves… Elves – such fair folk as in legend and dreamers' memory, that immortal breed so sprung from starlight, the slayers of darkness and its very rumor… Such tales have been told to fearful children in the battle-eves, before their deaths, and here I spirit to a world where legends remembered for comfort live in fear. What folly dwells my years… You are an elf."

That whispered voice had often sung in Glorfindel's elven ears that day, that sorrowful chanting of words void of meaning though beautiful to hear, and then silence followed with forgotten words too great in meaning to be uttered there, where she sat astride his own horse, this forlorn creature of ethereal circumstance, this battle-bloodied dove.

His lips spoke without call, weaving vast empires of old into remembrance, drawing ancient war unto recollection. Such things he said to her that the greatest of elf-friends could not claim to know, and each syllable she locked into some great vessel within her memory. Of orc and man alike he made tale, and to each of these she would nod her fair head as each word was etched upon her mind, to be considered by her fain thought in later times. 

But ever the verity of the elves' existence seemed to amaze her, who seemed so unlikely to be surprised. New questions sprang ever to her lips, and his every answer was too shallow a cup to quench her overwhelming thrust. It was as if she wished to hold the worlds within her hands, and yet he did not fear her endless hunger for knowledge. It was clarity she sought, clarity of mind when all his world was of such confusion to her. She was as great as he if not greater, and yet so much less, and so much more – what indeed was she that sat behind him, and talked of life and death as if it were such a mild event, and yet whose voice was ever sown with grave remembrance? Her eyes did not see him, but looked on into the faded distance, dwelling upon some other earth and breathing some other air.

"Elves, I remember so little, were of minor text in the few eldest chronicles of the first great Circles, all written of in languages dead by many eons – they are left without count. It was a friend of mine who gave them to me long ago to read, when such knowledge was still gifted to me. Most of those few pages are gone, or destroyed, some unfinished and others stained by the slow succession of time, if they do indeed yet exist. But there did not seem much order in all of those sparse notes, and I thought them some characters of fiction recorded by the pleasure of some great Power. Perhaps the Circles knew more concerning the threads of time than they would let one know, or at least their ancestors must have possessed that knowledge. But if elves are true, then perhaps I should take the existence of dwarves into consideration as well."

Caliasar had laughed at that last of her words, as if such blatant pain as had been within her voice before had never passed unto her face, whose betraying curves were played with the very fingers of sorrow. The voice of her blemished recollection was filled with the niches of darkness, and the caves void of light, unexplored then by will or by fear of their content, as if such words had risen from the most distant corners of her being, bringing rumor of foul water within the pure of that great well.

Glorfindel felt the allure of that inconsolable voice, alike to the challenge of some unseen foe – alike to the deer's thought _Run!_ as a hunter stands by, alike to the beast drawn to a trap by the rumor of fare there to be found, alike to the bird whose careless flight has caught him before a net with no might to prevent that ensnaring line from stealing his wings from the sky. He laughed, the sound seeming a gravest lie, and yet he could not have helped but laugh, undecided as to if he was truly amused or simply wishing some escape. How indeed could any word of his speak any comfort unto such nameless hurt?

Swiftly he turned his eyes to the path once more, lest his opportunity be gone. The trail of his query had once more met the path, as he had suspected, and it seemed as good an excuse as any other not to look back into that shallow depth behind him. And yet, he was not so certain that it was what he wished. He could feel her looking past him, gazing at nothing and seeing things that the onward thrust of time would not let her eyes behold in truth ever again. The every emotion that graced her features seemed like a challenge for him to decipher her meaning, to understand her appearance, and why she had been sent to his world – to know why she was at all.

But most of all he wished that he could understand the meaning in all of the beautiful words of which she had spoken, the liquid song of her world, a silent drop of water screaming of an ocean. Long ago his mind had consented to allow her to have come from another earth. If it had not, then it would doubtless be he who sounded so confused and forlorn. He had never chanced to come across a creature so unsolved unto his elven mind, and he could not conclude if this was for the better or the worse. But in her presence all fear of his pursuit and all worry for those that he pursued seemed suddenly trivial. Or did it seem but less existent? 

What evil haunted the shadows of her mind? What horrified cries clung to the corners of her lips? What was that death-like veil that so viciously refused to clear from her living eyes? And why was this pain that emanated from her very skin so apparently unable to be healed, and yet made so present in his mind?

***

Caliasar sighed with her surrender, what contentment might be called a smile found lingering within her thoughtless tire. She leaned back once more with hands against the horse's sinuous flesh, and watched the wraithlike gray of the clouds deepen with the shadows of night, drawing the depths of her eyes to their shade. They swept past her vision like ghosts drifting reluctantly from the grasp of life into the oceans of their eternity. With them she wandered through the passages of time, and drew about her the likeness of their baleful cloak. She was a specter looming in a foreign land, a shadow cast within a dream, an apparition made living with blood and flesh, and flesh's fear.

Inclining her head she watched her new companion, letting the etiquette of her more abstemious mentality fall away as she considered his world and designed a culture within her mind to surround him. Glorfindel seemed never to tire of her inquest, though she knew he spoke but a bead of such intriguing sustenance from his memory's deep and darkened well. If he thought her mind so treacherous, more was her advantage.

But with all of her concern and for all of her ambiguity, she could not help but take such solace as might be permissible in the company of an elf. He was soft-spoken and fair of voice though his tongue seemed apt to think of sharpness when incurred with evil memory, and command was not unknown to his lips if even it was less heard by his ears. His mind had been more swift to consent that she was not of his world than even she had been, though the notion seemed still reserved by his few remaining thoughts of logic. This, of course, was for the best, but she could not help but wish that he would simply come and ask where she had come from, and who, or what, she truly was. It would have made the tasks at hand by so far much easier, and feeling as if she would sleep for days if allowed to lie down, Caliasar truly didn't feel up to making anyone understand more than the fact that she was exhausted and hungry enough to relieve Asfaloth, as Glorfindel called him, of at least one leg, and maybe a few ribs.

As the evening cooled, she could almost taste the sense of his concentration. It had been many passings of both moon and sun since she had last been in the presence of such an unfathomable ancientness. But perhaps she had only become used to its presence among those of her companions who could claim it, and only because of its profound differences of content in this world did it seem so astonishingly breathtaking as it had when first she experienced it so long ago. Would one ever know that they were the vessels of such amaze if they were never told of it? Or was it something that every being possessed, and that only age could make so profound? This seemed more the likely, and most likely why mortals rarely gained such empowering qualities. Most mortals.

It was then that they passed yet another grove of trees, and her vision immediately turned outward again. The night was paled by the shadows of day, radiance lingering in the wells of distant mountains as they marched abroad her horizons. Softly the chill of evening descended and she felt refreshed by that cool hand, her mind awakened once more to her surround. Silent rock spoke of strange tales in languages alike to the songs of foreign birds, whose melodies seem out of place where more common harmonies once rang. 

Her hand placed itself upon Glorfindel's shoulder when at last this new presence flowed as if a mist or on a raindrop's path into her consciousness, tainting the air about with apprehension. But the elf-lord had already reined in his great horse, and glanced up into the bramble that lined the road even as she did, and even as the tall figure of a man leapt with a cry of joy from the heather's shadow.

Glorfindel quickly dismounted, leaving all thought and memory of her behind as he ran to meet this one who must be that which he had been searching for. Again a beautiful thread of words sprang from his lips, this time answered in the same language by this tall man whose rough appearance and dark complexion made him almost impossible to place any detail on from so far away. They were speaking so rapidly that she was forced to cease her struggle to find any meaning in the elegant syllables, content and yet not comforted in listening to their urgent speech, the flurry of words reeling in her mind as she glanced about for the others who should have been with this newcomer.

The dark man chanced to glance up then as her eyes panned the wood, and his eyebrows knit with an expression none short of purest awe. Another word he spoke to his companion, and Glorfindel turned to wave his hand as if to encompass a thought. The only word of his reply that she could pick out was his now improved pronunciation of "Caliasar." Yet still the man left his eyes upon her, and the elf surprised her with his smile. For a moment they stared as this, his gray eyes ploring the depths of her own. What emotion flickered within him she could hardly see, so stern and grave was his face. Yet with the long passage of a moment his expression was soft as if with much weariness and sorrow, for which or whom she could not tell. 

Resigned to a nod as if he had no other response to give he turned away once more and beckoned toward the bushes from whence he had come. To her surprise, out of the thicket clambered four children, one on a pony, though they were not children at all. Miniature men, seeming as tired as she and their faces lit with joy as they watched Glorfindel, all hurried down to the road as swiftly as their rather large feet could carry them. 

"This is Glorfindel, who dwells in the house of Elrond," spoke the man as he smiled upon his small company. Caliasar let her head tilt once more as she watched their joyful exhaust, and felt the first true finger of trepidation stroke her heart as she let herself pity those such small men, whose faces bore all fear and loss of hope returned.

"Hail, and well met at last!" returned the elf, seeming to speak more to one taller and fairer of the four short men. "I was sent from Rivendell to look for you. We feared that you were in danger upon the road."

The little man replied swiftly, asking if one named Gandalf had come to this Rivendell. He seemed very grieved when Glorfindel said that he had not, and with the elf's explanation Caliasar learned much that seemed less useful than even those blasted bells so ringing from Asfaloth's harness. The bridge that she had found was called Mitheithel, and Glorfindel had set out nine days before. He spoke also of the "Nine" and the "servants of Sauron," which were perhaps more important, and she supposed they were the same thing, of which five were pursuing them. He felt that the ford for which they were making was already held against them by the remaining four, which was a touch irritating to hear after so long listening to the accounts of ancient time. Was the present always to be forgotten when the past once again chanced the mind? _I'm doomed_, she sighed, and shook her head for such distress.

Now made more curious than frightened, Caliasar slipped from Asfaloth's back and came to Glorfindel's side, almost oblivious of the movement. She was watching the small man with out reason for her intent, as the eve deepened and he suddenly swayed, catching his companion's arm.

"My master is sick and wounded," said the second angrily. "He can't go on riding after nightfall. He needs rest."

Glorfindel caught the creature as he sank to the ground, taking him gently into his arms and looking at his face with grave anxiety.

Briefly the tall man told of an attack of these "Black Riders," glancing back and forth between Caliasar and Glorfindel as if they should suddenly disappear by such talk of evil. He drew out the bladeless hilt of a knife, and handed it to the elf. Glorfindel shivered as he took it, staring intently at its design.

"There are evil things written on this hilt," he said, "though maybe your eyes cannot see them. Keep it, Aragorn, till we reach the house of Elrond. But be wary, and handle it as little as you may! The wounds of this weapon are beyond my skill to heal. I will do what I can – but all the more do I urge you now to go on without rest."

Caliasar sighed once more as softly as she could, realizing that she was not going to be receiving any sleep that night for certain. Aragorn, as he had been called, glanced up as if suddenly remembering her again. Returning his gaze for only a moment she could not even coax her lips into a word of greeting, such was her exhaustion. After being silent for such a time she no longer bore a desire to speak. Instead she turned her eyes to watch the doings of Glorfindel.

His hand searched a sickly healing wound that held most of the little man's shoulder, his face growing more grave with every passing moment as if what his fingers learned disquieted him. Caliasar moved to look at the creature's face, his eyes glazed with pain and his brow heavy with sweat. But he seemed to grow more at ease as Glorfindel stood there, and his eyes suddenly fixed on her as they had not seemed capable of doing just a moment ago.

Suddenly she found herself lifting a single pastel hand to stroke his cheek, murmuring an echoing stream of words from Elendrith tongues that even she did not understand. Nor did any other in her world save the most learned in ancient lore, for it was of a language so long dead that even the children of its time had ceased to find any meaning in it save purest beauty and hope. Smiling, Caliasar wiped the sweat from his forehead and was pleased as he returned the smile.

She looked up to find five other faces turned upward with gazes locked on her as if they were waiting for her to disappear in a puff of smoke or fade back into the wind. The small men seemed all to think that she was an elf as well (which seemed enough amazement for them), as did Aragorn, though he seemed to be fraught with the awareness that he knew better, and Glorfindel seemed to be only once more in awe. Inclining her brows with an unreadable curl to her lips Caliasar shook at least the elf back to his senses.

"You shall ride my horse," said Glorfindel suddenly, looking down at the small person in his arms once more.

"I will not!" the little man intoned with a voice still harsh from pain. "I shall not ride him, if I am to be carried off to Rivendell or anywhere else, leaving my friends behind in danger." He certainly was a thoughtful, chivalrous little thing. 

Glorfindel smiled. "I doubt very much if your friends would be in danger if you were not with them. The pursuit would follow you and leave us in peace, I think. It is you, Frodo, and that which you bear that brings us all in peril."

Caliasar snapped her gaze upward once again as swiftly as she dared to glare at the elf, trying to discern the meaning in his words. Why indeed would anyone wish to harm such a small people, and what thing did this one carry that would make him so suddenly a target of such pursuit?

Glorfindel seemed to ignore her and shortened Asfaloth's stirrups up to the saddle-skirts before setting the one that he had called Frodo (such strange names!) astride. The little man looked like a child sitting upon a great warhorse. They began rearranging their gear, giving more to their pony and giving some for the elf to carry. Caliasar took Frodo's pack and made the straps longer, filling it with as much as Aragorn or even Glorfindel could bear. They protested, having thought that she would ride with Frodo, but she raised her hand decidedly, silencing them.

"It is easier to walk with a full pack than not," she said, and they had not the chance to argue with her as she set out at a pace that only Glorfindel himself could have matched.

***

"Who are you?" Frodo spoke from his seat above her, seeming embarrassed that he could do nothing more than be carted about by an elf-lord's horse.

"I am called Caliasar," she replied in a voice clear enough for them all to heed, noting this question burning upon all of their faces, even in Glorfindel's, though his thoughts were far deeper. "May I ask, who are you?"

"I am Frodo son of Drogo, a hobbit of the Shire." He blinked, seeming to think that he had said too much.

"Hobbits, then, are what you call yourselves?" she smiled at him, and Frodo relaxed. "And the rest of you, you also have names?"

The small men, the _hobbits_, fidgeted under her eyes, but it took only a moment for one of the younger looking ones to pipe up in his thick ascent, far worse than Glorfindel's, and she was forced to listen very closely if she was to understand him.

"I'm Peregrin Took, but you may call me Pippin, and this is Meriadoc Brandybuck, Merry for short. Frodo here is a Baggins, and this is Samwise Gamgee – call him Sam."

Aragorn (not to mention Sam, though he seemed to have relaxed about her as Frodo had) seemed unsure as to if they had said too much or not, having glanced up at her with the word "Baggins," and seeming relieved that she thought nothing of it.

"Hello then, well enough. Now that I know what you are, I suppose you would wish to know what I am. But that is a tale of another matter entirely, and fit for times of less haste. You are called Aragorn, are you not? Though these hobbits call you Strider," she said, looking up at him.

"I am Aragorn among many other names. Strider is what men who know less have taken to call me in the village of Bree." He seemed very uneager to answer her, shrouded both sinister and mysterious beneath a cloak of tension and time. Glorfindel smiled faintly and the two began to speak once more in his language. Aragorn lifted his brows once more, and glanced in her direction again before continuing their exchange.

Drawing a smirk across her face Caliasar glanced about once more before turning to the hobbits, feeling a slight awkward now that Glorfindel had found someone whom he could confer her appearance with, not to mention someone who also knew that same language that she did not. No longer wishing to attempt a translation, she turned to the hobbits once more.

"This Shire that you come from, what is it like?" Little did she know that with that single sentence and in the next seven hours at least she would not only learn how beautiful the Shire was (though words could not describe it as they had said, though they seemed to find enough words to say about it), but also the origin of pipe weed, the best foods to eat for every occasion from a wedding to the discovery of a lost button, and everything that had happened to each of their uncle's wife's cousin's husband's best friend since the day that he or she had been born. Which it was, she had forgotten long ago when the conversation had turned toward how wonderful the beer was at the Prancing Pony, whatever that was.

***

**Recap:** Glorfindel and Caliasar meet Aragorn and the hobbits. Caliasar ends up on the outside and gains a few hobbit friends. We're all happy. It's 4:00 in the morning. Here at least. It's probably like 6:30 or 7:00 p.m. there. Oh well, you get the picture. Now having gained a bit of knowledge and a few companions to base her thoughts of Middle-earth on, Cali is bound to start lightening up and show more of her character. By the title alone you should be able to tell that she's a little sarcastic, if I may say so myself. Whoop.

I'm sorry for all of the questions that they keep asking themselves, but I'm trying to stress the confusion thing. I'm not very good at making people sound confused, so I just started making them ask themselves a bunch of idioms. Heh, works for me.

Okay, I understand that elves and orcs go together, but Glorfindel wouldn't have told her that, or else she _would_ have been more interested in them. But her world has never heard about orcs or humans before, though they have read a few stories about elves. It's just natural that she would be more interested in elves, not only because she had never thought that they could be real, but because she had found them so intriguing on paper in her own world. By about now she wouldn't care much about what Glorfindel thought of her, she just wants to _know_, feeling now that he isn't going to club her over the head for asking questions. She would have been very careful about what she asked, nonetheless, and he would have been careful about what he replied. But still, don't feel that I skipped over too much. It was just talk, and probably more abbreviated than the conversations that she will have with other elves once people know for certain that they can trust her. (ooooohhhhhhhhh, foreshadowing!)

A review submitted is a very good review indeed.


	5. Stay in the Light

Chapter 4:  Stay in the Light 

Well, this was supposed to be the last chapter of them on the road, but as I've said, I rewrote everything in the last chapter and spilled almost half of it into this one. Then this chapter was too long for one and yet too small for two, so knowing that I didn't want to cut anything out I just added a bit in. Then I got poem happy in the dream sequence and I had to split the chapter yet again. Now they'll be on the road until the end of Chapter 6 – well, actually until the beginning of Chapter 7. Never mind it though, this chapter is very nice, or so I think. I hope you'll enjoy it too!

And yet another thing, you might notice a slight change in my writing once more. I've been listening to a lot of different soundtracks while I've been writing the previous chapters, but today I finally got my hands on the TTT soundtrack (hey I live in the sticks, give be a break) and I'm listening to it now, and it's making my writing a little sad and freakish. Oh well, I rather like it this way. It shows more of Cali's sad, ethereal character, which is even better displayed in the next chapter, which I promise will come soon.

***

"Betwixt the 'tween fine silver sheen,

The fair moon's light and breath, 

The maiden huntress lies awake,

Her bow the tool of death.

The call of them and morbid fright,

Into her heart does pierce.

And as the stars' rotation turns,

The latter more the fierce. 

Upon the mount the huntress claims,

All land in which they dwell,

The charger swift and raven black,

And wards those creeds who fell.

Her arms are spread in blessings bright,

Her hair the very moon,

Yet in her eyes the huntress sees,

How hunters meet their doom.

In words of shivering silver quick,

And with a gentle hand,

The Lady calls upon her now, 

The willing to withstand.

"Do not deny my children's lives,

When they your own do spare,

Lay your bow now down to rest,

And arrows keep from air."

And with her comes the raven wind,

And with it leaves her fright,

For now the huntress' eyes have seen,

But through darkness is there light.

The maiden of the silver wood,

Is but a spirit, true,

But should you see her by the moon,

This truth shall come anew.

Hear her voice among the song,

Of wolf and wind alike,

And see her face within stars,

And this is truer sight.

But scabbard not what magic wrought,

For blood-lack is in thy thread,

Nor call 'pon blade thy hand forsake, 

Should in turn be key of dead.

Take such oath in matter light,

I scarce can be the thought,

By blade to live, in turn shall die,

Through battles left un-fought.

Such kings shall fall to fallow lands,

Whilst She should pass his way,

And all will cower in her name,

Ere come no break of day.

Should claim your soul the blade forsworn,

Perhaps shall thwart thy plight,

Be wary though of raven black,

Be turn her blade from light.

No, scabbard not, what magic wrought,

Though forsworn be worthy hand, 

For sheath 'tis what hath saved thy blood,

Not blade of magic's land. 

Shall songs be sung, oh valiant lord,

Whose tale ends now in vain,

Would that you should try her whiles,

Save be her newest bane.

Dwindle now thy blood-shorn form,

Think now of valley home,

In yonder life that drains thee now,

The pool of crimson is thy own.

Yet betwixt the 'tween, fair silver sheen,

A mind there yet exists,

And in her chest there lies a heart,

Which yours cannot resist.

The thorn that pricks may well yet slay,

Un-notched be perilous blade,

And when a hand is lain at hilt,

The life within not stayed.

To aver land is not to sway, 

The growth that land should hold,

'Tis same of blade which turns in hand,

Lest in death that averred rules.

Of games the sword once was of use,

War mocked to occupy,

Should it be not that blade doth same,

What say it, you and I?

Betwixt this 'tween, fine silver sheen

Most morose of visions forms,

The strike of steel, the slick of blood,

The dark and battle worn.

A game of chase, she bids no more,

But the huntress not the prey,

A stag for stag, life spilled as king,

She plans no easy play.

Follow She, great champion,

Where e're the winds shall go,

And we may see the truer might,

And learn what we must know.

Bewitched, beware the living air

That creeps beneath your skin,

The silent bird that sits at watch,

Song only sung within.

The path she follows is her death,

But for destiny she fights,

And for her life have naught to fear,

If you stay within the Light."

Caliasar shivered as the words of a song tore through her mind like a river made new by much rain. At first the somber flow of words had seemed welcome, almost, and then suddenly with vehemence they became harsh as if the heavens had found no solace in their gentle tears and began to savagely pummel her mind with their sorrowful misgivings. Blackness was about her like a veil woven too thickly to stifling wool, and as she struggled to be free of that great and panic-worthy weight the words were lost to her ears, but their song remained, embedded in the corners of her mind to be drawn back when the time had come to fear premonition once more.

The darkness eased. A light was cast into that abyss, the feeble tongue of a candle as it hungrily drank the air. Two more pinpricks of light joined it suddenly and at once, but they were only a mockery of that truer light, two fell mirrors reflecting their poisonous glow by that flame. They were eyes – yellow eyes as if two spheres of gold had been given life and set into a creature's face whose features she could not yet see.

_Who are you?_ her heart and mind screamed to beg, her skin crawling with the frustration of that adamant command's failure to be done. It was as if that candle had ignited her flesh, burning with the desire to do as she willed herself to do, and being time and time again denied. She was tearing, she was cracking, she was bursting with the brutal ache to make her lips move, to make her fingers curl into the fists that should have formed. She trembled with her pain, muscle set against muscle as those leering eyes bore into her. She had never felt such fear, such fear that she could not find what this creature was. She wished suddenly to flee, no longer giving heed to her desire to know who it was whose yellow glare had set her to such madness. 

And then the voice of those eyes began to chant once more: "Bewitched, beware the living air, that creeps beneath your skin, the silent bird that sits at watch, song only sung within…" 

A step was taken forward, and it was a woman who stood before her. She was tall and dark, if even she had not been standing within the shadows. But her every feature was still shrouded by obscurity, though the candle was in her hand. It was not on a post, but bear, its molten wax flowing like water down the candle shaft and over her hand. She continued to walk forward, and Caliasar could see how her skin bubbled and blistered with that fiery liquid. Why did she not let down the light?

"The path she follows is her death, but for destiny she fights, and for her life have naught to fear…"

Caliasar tried to back away, but she could not. Her heart had climbed her throat, there beating so loudly it seemed certain to burst. Her blood beat wickedly against her skin, her every breath tore like sand in wind against the flesh of her lungs. _She is Karshega, she is the Maiden of the Blades…She is the failed Protector of the Light…And I am the new…_

_Yes, my pain is thine to feel in time…Your hour grows short, your candle burns high – beware of that flame, but do not let it fall, for my fate is yours, to dwell eternally in the Night! _The fetch of Karshega, her ancestor, drew ever near. Caliasar's quaver renewed, giving all thought to closing her eyes. But they would not yield to her. Again the graceful stride of her tormentor thrust out again, and she stopped. With her steady hand, though boiling under her skin, she drew the candle up. 

Caliasar had known what she would see, but never could one prepare to behold such agony. The woman's face had once been fair as new fallen snow and beauty had once dwelled upon her living flesh. But that skin lived no more. It was twisted, it was maimed, it was blistered and charred by the fire of her light. Her flowing black hair was now alike to brushwood being scorched long by fire. Her eyes were indeed of a golden hue as they had always been, but they were lain bear by burnt flesh, filled with ever-flowing tears that dried before they could touch her tortured skin, and with her eyelids seared to her brow she was unblinking. Her flame had once been strong indeed, for all of her was of this like, but now the candle burned low with little light, and soon it would go out. "…if you stay within the Light."

Her hand reached out, offering the candle to Caliasar. The youth stared into that flame, not willing to look upon the face of one whose beauty she had long admired in many a painting of books now faded of text. "The Light is yours to bear. I have failed…"

Caliasar flinched at her ancestor's words. "You have not failed, you have but taken the path as it was lain at your feet, and you have traveled it well. Let the Light go out – its time has ended. What good could cause such pain? The Night will heal what fire has caused…" Caliasar did not wish to touch the skin of this being. She did not wish to hold that candle, if all her life for that choice was forfeit.

"The Flame will burn, but the Light is not of the Flame. And yet in these times it is all that we have left to us, for the Light has passed and Night has come already long ago. But true darkness has not yet fallen. I have saved this last Light from the days of old – would you extinguish your last of hopes? The Night brings not healing, but great sorrow and greater hurt. Perhaps your deeds shall kindle this fire anew, and it will be for a time as if the Light has returned…"

"I will not bear it."

"I call upon you, Daughter of Light. You alone can conquer the abyss, be it for only a stolen season, you must restore the Memory of Light." Ever Karshega held the candle out to Caliasar, and the wax continued to spill away and boil the flesh of her hand. "Take it, or die in the Void, guilty of treason, guilty of sacrilege, guilty of your own weaknesses. That is what you fear? Death and pain hold no sway upon you. It is failure – but you have already failed, if you do not take the Last Light. My line has failed. The world hangs here this morn…"

Caliasar still gazed into the flame, entranced by its radiant dance, all words flowing over her as a river flows over long-worn stone. _Failure…You fear to fail them…_Her hand rose as if time itself bore down upon her flesh. With quivering fingers she reached forth, and as her grasp neared the candle it suddenly reversed its spell, as fallen wax at once was gone into the earth, and new like the stem of some fair flower grew upon the shaft, cast high and beautiful once more. 

The flame grew tall and bright, and as her fingers closed about the smooth wax there was a blinding luminescence about all. She looked up, and where the flame-seared woman had stood there was a creature of youth and beauty once more. She smiled, and turning toward the shadows again was gone.

Caliasar was alone then in the darkness, with only her single light, which now in her solitude seemed but a feeble ember dying into cold ash. Like a whisper of remaining evil there came a new thread: "See the darkness round about, but be not of its spell…"

Suddenly a drop of wax fell upon Caliasar's hand as the candle began to burn down once more in its slow and all so finite eternity. She flinched as she felt her skin burn, but could not move to cast the candle away if even her heart would let her.

And again came that voice, though now it seemed her own, and alike to the terrible hiss of a beast long without the light of day upon its face. "Stay in the Light!"

***

With a suddenness that shook her very core to waking alarm Caliasar felt a hand fall on her shoulder. She flinched to consciousness, but found no slavering beast before her. It was the figure of a man, and his fair face was drawn ever fairer with a smile, soft, as if he did not think that it was appropriate to smile, at least not right then. No, it was not a man, but an elf, whose name soon followed in thought.

Glorfindel narrow his eyes as he looked upon her, almost as if he was trying to see if she was well. "They have stopped talking, more than an hour ago." She had been murmuring as if in recorded reply for much longer than even that, but her voice was the words of a strange and desolate song, chanted rather than sung, but whispered so softly by her sleeping lips that only he had been capable of deciphering her words, if the others had even heard her speech in their weary stupor.

Caliasar did not appear yet fully arrived to the present. Her eyes did not look past the elf, but rather through him, and she swayed as one drained of blood. For a moment he thought that she would fall and made ready to catch her, but she steadied at once, and blinking the glaze from her eyes seemed to truly wake once more. "I must have fallen asleep…" her lips hardly moved, and her voice did not seem her own. But then, he was not sure exactly what face of her she truly was.

Suddenly Caliasar smiled, and gazing up to let the pale light of dawn flow over her face she sighed, warmth slowly returning to her death-pale skin once more. Then she laughed as she often did, that laughter of clear rain fallen gently within the wood, bringing each leaf that she touched to singing joy.

Given leave to merriment once again Glorfindel was swift to join her newest temper. "You sleep even as you walk?" he said, and his eyebrows arched incredulously, or perhaps only in amazement, if there was any end in her ability to amaze.

"It is a habit, long in possession and slow in discarding," she shrugged slightly. "One can only travel for so many years in the same company before one begins to learn how to ignore that company, and how to benefit from the time in which one ignores them."

At this he too laughed, though the sound was controlled and soon extinguished. "We must halt now, for our hobbits do not have such luxuries as walking slumber, though stopping is not at all to my liking. Take what further rest you may, for soon our haste shall be even more."

Caliasar cast her gaze about once more as the elf-lord strode away. The skies were dark, yet pale with the gray morning, as was all the land that surrounded her, as if under a great cloak of shadow. It must have been no more than an hour or so after the break of dawn, and even as she watched the hobbits stumbled to the ground and were asleep. Aragorn, as well, cast himself down in the heather but a few yards away from the roadside.

She shivered in the dimness and the chill, for it was not a true cold, but rather a breath of ice that drew to the very bones and made one seem all the colder for the lack of that truer cold. Glorfindel had glimpsed that raw upwelling within her eyes, had his own or his words not belied it. _The pool of crimson is thy own…_

Resigned to the tire of evil dreams and their bitter wakings, she too lay down, though sleep was slow to come. Glorfindel had set himself to watch as they slept, which was more disquieting than it was comforting, though she did not understand their fear as his lingering glance did not comprehend her torments. He could well enough see her pain, as she could see their trepidation, yet neither knew the other's mind. There was the guess of silence about them, two powers of two worlds made distant by their very evils. His eyes then turned to the road, and her eyes drew inward to her own decipherings once more.

_The Memory of Light…_ Many times had this dream come to Caliasar as she slept, most often at such unlikely times. With each vision she was a different face of a woman, some obscure relic of the past, some shield maiden of a great people, some vagabond of a lowly state. And each time also was the face of her tormenter different than the last. But this day – this day she had dreamed of Karshega, of all greatest beings! And she had been her own face, so many masks of so many women as her own mentality was. In all other times it was as her hand had hardly neared the candle that some waking savior would be sent, and yet this day the dream had almost run its course. How close had she come to that terrible beast that was her tortured self… How much closer would she come? _This world does me ill that the pains of my own should reach with sharper blades the further I flee their worry._

No color more than pale gray came to the skies, though she was most certain that without all of those sinister mantles of cloud the dawn would have been a most beautiful sight. At last, no longer able to bear such foreboding silence, she let herself fall to sleep. There was no use wasting what little time of rest she had.

It seemed only a moment latter that Glorfindel awakened her, and indeed, it had only been a few hours. The day was breaching noon, and though she herself felt more awake than she had for many days, the hobbits and even Aragorn stumbled through the sunlit hours as if they had not slept at all, and there was little talk of any kind. Frodo seemed far worse than he had, and the fear that seemed so distant but a short time ago seemed now so real to Caliasar that the memory of her own troubles, a world apart, seemed as a feather to the weight of the shadow that bore down over the poor hobbit's shoulders. They rested little that day, and when darkness came, they were once more forced to halt. They could not go further that night, no matter if all the forces of evil were now in their pursuit.

And it was then that Caliasar glanced to her hand and found a small, circular burn.

***

**Recap: **Cali has a dream about one of her ancestors. I'm not telling you anything more, because when in Rivendell and afterwards she explains the whole thing. Mwaha.

Oh, before I forget, this might be a good time to tell you something about Cali's world. You may have noticed that she doesn't seem very worried about all that's going on in Middle-earth, even if she is a little confused about exactly what _is_ going on, and that is for a good reason. When she does seem worried it's always when she is thinking about her world. That's because all that's happening in Middle-earth has basically happened already in her world. In fact, one of her ancestors failed in a quest much like Frodo's, and her planet is in essence trying to win back its freedom from a "Dark Lord" once more after "he" rose to power again. She'll explain it better in Rivendell, but I just thought that you should know why she doesn't seem very worried. She's seen it all before.


	6. Darkness is Coming

Chapter 5:  Darkness is Coming 

I'm soooo sorry I haven't updates for so long! All weekend I was here or there and I had a history report and then a truckload of homework and my dear mother decided that it was time to cut my hair and the whole thing is just one big blur. I didn't get to write hardly anything during all of that time, so you'll just have to forgive me. Thank you Nebulae, though everything does seem to be a Mary sue anymore, I'm hoping not to make her too much of one. And thank you Valour, I always did like compliments, but Keith Urban… (j/k) And of course, thank you Keeper of the Shattered Mirrors! (Happy Danielly? Mwaha.)

Well, maybe I'll get it all to fit in this chapter after all. We'll just have to wait and see. I'm really getting sick of this blasted road! But this is a sweet chapter. Alas, poor hobbitses. Hey, Did you ever notice that the word "hobbit" is in the Word dictionary, but none of the names of hobbits or any other characters are? Strange, I know. -points- Oh yes, story now.

***

Caliasar watched as her hands gently explored the worn runes that trailed her staff. Though they were ancient in design, each one was still remembered by her fingers like the stones of a beloved path often walked. Through the darkness about her she could see little, but when beneath the shadow-filled overhang of some wind-worn cliff the outside world seemed somewhat less black. Asfaloth and Bill, the pony who traveled with the hobbits, stood both dejectedly as the heavy rains slicked their backs and once more starless night toiled above.

It was the scent of rain and the calm of night that drew contentment over her every feature, the cool winds of that weather shifting to caress her cheek with the touch of velvet night. It was not the night that was the wicked finger of doom, but the fear of night's great and harboring shores. As the ocean's dark waves it swept over the lands and was for that ever more perilous and ever more beautiful. Over her the darkness held no evil – it held only longing. 

The air had never seemed so pure to her breath, cleansing the hurt and tire of the day from her body with its every chill whisper about stone and leaf. A rain so reverberating as the tears of weeping spirits strummed a song from some feigned wind chime at the world's edge, and danced its melodies above her with a serenity that brought all thoughts to the vales of her – home? But such was folly to even think. _I have no home. I bear only the memories of such lands in which my heart had once found peace for a time. And those lands would fail for even that should I return. I have no home._

Sleep had evaded her that night, whether for fear of dreams or for simple lack of its need she could not tell. Into the cape of blackness Glorfindel had long ago disappeared, and Aragorn was not in her sight. But not so very far away there slept the four hobbits, all huddled together against the damp chill. She watched them for a moment, brushing a lock of moon-pale hair behind her pointed ear as the winds renewed with a sudden boiling of the skies. Her gaze was torn by a flash of brilliant light, and she smiled as thunder rolled across the land like the purr of some great sleeping beast. The clouds frothed like an angered river's foam as the wind tore at their darkened fabric, and for a moment the only perceivable sound was the sudden slow remembrance of earth's torments as they washed ever-changing over the world's ancient face.

And then as the great gust faded into the silence of things past, a murmur of wordless fear interrupted her solitude. Caliasar glanced quickly about, and saw that Frodo tossed in his sleep, his hands groping at his neck as if to find some trinket there, and his brow laden with cold sweat. Again some illegible sound alike to a whimper broke from his sleeping lips, and flinching wickedly at once his eyes burst open and he gasped the cool air as if he had thought himself to be in great danger. Seeing only blackness he struggled to rise up on his elbows, and at once caught sight of her as she watched him from her seat so near the cave's mouth.

"Ill dreams have found you this night, Frodo?" she asked once the silence between them had grown too much.

"Yes, night brings darkness and dark dreams to me – now." He drew his hands over his face for a moment and shivered at some fell thought. But then he glanced up at her with the look of a wary beast in his eyes. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

Caliasar watched that haunted gaze intensively as her own decipherings began to slowly gather for the piecing. The hobbit's words were slow and careful as if he thought her apt to spear him through with the staff in her hands. Putting it aside without removing her watch she spoke, "The elder of my world need little sleep – to sit in stillness of the mind is enough to bring vitality to weary flesh, and I have slept somewhat already. But why do you, Frodo son of Drogo, wake at such an hour, when you have been so worn all this day?"

Awe awoke in him and for a moment the hobbit could think of no words as he held the gaze of her eyes, but with a final sigh he shook his head. Then braking suddenly through darkness he saw a light burning brightly, as if from within her very heart. And then as she breathed once more the light was gone, and then returned as swiftly. Moving closer he saw that it was a silver amulet set about her throat, shinning even when there was not enough light to bring any glimmer to the faces of her millions of other metal ornaments.

"The likeness of Iridren, some say, is the Flower of Lyonthel," smiling slightly, Caliasar undid the slender chain and set the amulet in his hand. 

Frodo brushed his hands over the bright stone as if it were the heirloom of an ancient dynasty of kings. A shower of white light reflected upon his face, like the light cast by rippling water, and clearer than the purest elven spring. "Iridren? Who was she so fair that this stone is her likeness?" he asked looking up, though his eyes soon returned to the charm within his hand.

"Iridren, Frodo, was not a woman, but the spirit Nahalainia's most beloved star. She burned brightest ever in the sky, but her light was neither vain nor envious, but shinned for no purpose but to simply be. Lyonthel was of the fair Elendrith, and this stone was given to her when she wed. But her time was to be as the time of a star, and though bright were her years they ended far sooner than forever should be. This amulet was given me by the lady of Aragulorn when once I passed there, but it was lost – perhaps while I wandered alone in the wilds. How it was come to her I do not know, but that was many years under sun and moon faded away. It was not long ago that it was at last returned to me."

"You speak in riddles," Frodo let a smile warm his eyes in the light of that stone.

"It seems so only because you do not know of what I speak. All names of my word fall dead to your ears that would kindle the hearts of a thousand were they spoken in what lands they speak of. And all words of your lands are thus lost to me. It is a pity that words may die as such, and I must find a way to ease their loss. Perhaps I will find a more willing voice than Glorfindel's to speak with me of such things once we are come to Rivendell."

"Strider knows many tales, and he is not so close as the elves, I should think, though there is – something else inside him more than knowledge and time. I do not know what it is."

Caliasar smiled softly at the hobbit where he sat, so small and frail that he seemed when so cruel a world lingered at their door. He was getting worse – his eyes growing pale like the eyes of a demon, and the air of fear seemed begun to draw about him like a cloak when it should be a sword to his heart. "I fear that your Aragorn finds little trust in me yet, Frodo. But time will tell us what it will. You must rest, for tomorrow we make the last run of our journey, and Rivendell is yet far from us as our moment in which to come there now wanes."

Frodo glanced up once more and frowned. "I cannot… I cannot sleep any longer. It is too dark."

"Do not fear darkness. Fear not any thing at all that comes with the night, but if you must fear, fear for the dawn to come."

"I see not how it will come at all," Frodo sighed, and handed her back the jewel as if its light was blinding his eyes.

"But it will, whether you see it or no. And see how it rains? Soon we shall see the dawn. But yes, it comes, and far too soon for you to lie waking when night gives you leave to sleep!" Suddenly Caliasar narrowed her eyes and smiled. "I see it now. You do not fear the darkness, Frodo, you fear your dreams. But I did not think that the dreams of mortals were alike to the living dreams of older creeds."

"Fear is in my dreams, but they are truly of darkness. I cannot sleep, for I am too weak."

"There is power in all worlds, and not all is for evil. Do you wish me to sing you to sleep, and I will promise no evil dreams shall find you," Caliasar's smile softened with half-remembered thought, and to even Frodo's eyes the world seemed then far less dark, for greater darkness was yet to come.

***

Aragorn woke from his sleep, for what reason he could not tell. The world was dark and still, and for a moment he could see nothing until his vision grew used to the night. Glorfindel was sitting not far away, leaning forward and gazing intently at something before him. Lifting himself onto his elbow Aragorn began to ask what was amiss, but the elf pressed a single finger to his lips and glanced to him before reverting his eyes once more.

Shifting again Aragorn followed the line of his companion's gaze. They were not far from the road, but very near the wood, and sheltered by a cave and in it a bush around which he could see a white figure, both bright and dark. It was Glorfindel's companion, the one who was called Caliasar, and she was awake as well, though she did not seem to be aware of them.

"What is she doing?" he looked up at the elf, nearly afraid to move lest he startle her attention.

"Listen," Glorfindel spoke without words, and Aragorn turned to watch her again.

She was sitting, her legs crossed and her knees pulled up before her. Her eyes, vast from even that distance, slipped from earth to sky and back again as if with her very thought she was painting the world with the moon's silver light as it every now and then escaped from the spiteful clouds. But as the winds shifted he could hear a melody so beautiful that even its foreign words seemed to overflow with meaning too deep and plenteous for any more known word to capture, and so quiet that he longed to move closer and hear those words more clearly. She was singing, her voice soft and low, and in a language that seemed as if it could not be understood by anything less beautiful than its words, and thus could be understood by nothing less beautiful than her.

Once more he was given reason to be envious of the elves, whose keen hearing could most certainly ensnare her every syllable. For a moment they sat like ghosts come upon a sudden voice whose words spoke in remembrance of their long-forgotten names, each listening as if through her voice they were being told the very meaning of the life which they had not noticed they bore until her voice made them live. At last Aragorn's question could go unanswered no longer, though any spoken word amongst that song was alike to the braying of a goat.

"Frodo woke in the night. His pain has been great, and it has been weighing heavily upon her throughout the day. His dreams have been evil when he may even sleep, and this night he is far worse. I had made ready to go to him, but she had awoken already and began to speak with him, if even she had slept at all. I have never heard such beautiful words before uttered by any living being, with such sorrow and such joy! He calmed once more and seemed content. I was then about to tell her to take rest, but she began to sing so that he might fall asleep. If she does not sing of those very fairest days of which she had told Frodo, then I am no elf indeed."

Aragorn watched her a moment longer. The hobbits were all asleep, huddled together in a slight depression in the earth, but Frodo was sleeping more deeply and with more peace than the ranger had seen in him for many days, if he had ever seen such contentment in a creature before. Even their pony, Bill, and Asfaloth, had lain near to hear her song. She stroked the great horse's neck with a hand like liquid silk, and glancing down at Frodo, now asleep, she let her song fade slowly away. To Aragorn it seemed as if a great light had been extinguished, and the world for all of its worth was then truly black. No, the light was simply hidden in the pale shroud of her skin, and he had no doubt that its radiance would burn his mind until the end of all days, however near or far that might be.

***

"You have become fast friends with the hobbits, I see," Aragorn said as he walked beside Caliasar the next day. They would soon reach the ford, and the tension between them seemed an ill omen of things to come.

Caliasar glanced up at Aragorn with little surprise in her gaze. She had felt the change in his opinion toward her as soon as she had awakened from her few brief hours of sleep, if she had not felt it even before then. He seemed to know not only that she was not of this Middle-earth, but also that he could now trust her. Indeed, he did not seem one who would be so slow to trust, seeming able to see a person's worth almost immediately, but for some reason he seemed unwilling to trust even his own often-used instincts when concerning the safety of Frodo.

Smiling, she replied almost sarcastically. "There was nothing 'fast' about that conversation at all, though I do suppose that I have gained a few friends, Aragorn."

He looked swiftly to the hobbits, still stumbling for their weariness, but now seeming more at ease, before daring the peril of meeting her eyes. "Aragorn son of Arathorn, Dunadan of the North."

"Pleased to meet you, Aragorn," and he wondered that she did not laugh.

"Likewise to you, Caliasar."

She smiled once more, still enough of a child in heart, at least, to make their words into her own little game, though he was certain that she was both ancient and wise beyond any among them, save perhaps Glorfindel, though his seemed so different a wisdom than hers. "Nemonlyna daughter of Favorace; my mother's name was Nemonhalia. What I am would take many years to tell, for I come of a world far beyond the reckonings of mortal mind, and yet, so near." Her laughter was soft, as if her jest was not to be of their understanding. "But I have taken the name Caliasar as my own for this life. In the ancient tongues belonging to the ancestors of my peoples, it would be the word meaning 'hope.' Which is odd indeed, for were you not once called Estel? That means 'hope' as well, does it not?"

"Yes –," he replied, seeming stunned. She never did enjoy anything more than surprising people with the useless knowledge that she was not supposed to possess.

"It is amazing how the tongues of elves will wag, is it not? And much may be gathered by an ear that has so often relied upon things left unrevealed in plainer speech."

It was Glorfindel's turn to arch his brows once more. "You are clever, Caliasar. Though many years lie upon your head, I would say that you are not much more than a child yet in your heart."

"In which life?" she smiled once more. "Yes, many are my years. But as Caliasar I am still young. I think you would find Nemonlyna much less to your liking. But in the company of those I have left, and in the company of those I have joined, there seems more reason for joy while life may last. Dark times are not the times for dark thoughts, but for laughter and joy! The night grows darker if you think only of darkness! But morning comes swiftly for those who laugh as they await it."

"Many might name those words wisest of all, if their thoughts did not already linger on darkness," Glorfindel returned. "Though I remember saying nothing of Aragorn to you before." Elves – they never did forget.

"Ah," she tapped her forehead slightly, "the mysteries of a perilous mind. You spoke of searching for a query, and I knew that you meant those that I had first sought out. A man and his brood, I had thought you," she did not laugh, but shook her head in amusement. "Yet you spoke also much of language and of your people. You spoke of Elrond, and of the few mortals who are known as elf-friends. What you did not say is easy enough to reap, though if you said nothing of the name Estel, then I might have read it in Aragorn himself, for names have a tendency to linger in the eyes of mortal and immortal alike. Even I cannot explain all of my ways."

"Indeed," Aragorn chuckled softly, no longer certain that he was right to let her begin such a game, much less a game against an elf. She seemed to have gathered his mentality into a jar, and was using it against him. But Glorfindel laughed, and she seemed to have stored that jar away once more for use another day.

"Then you are mortal?" 

Caliasar looked up at Frodo, startled out of her smile. Both man and elf fell silent, for both had wondered this same thing, though even before they had truly met her they had not actually wished to know the answer.

"Yes, I am mortal," she said, a much softer expression lighting her face. It was not quite a smile, and yet it was no frown. "But my mother's people are very long-lived. I do not know when I will die – it could be in five seconds or in five thousand years. But do not think it so cruel, for all lives are promised as such. No creature immortal or otherwise is guaranteed his next breath."

The very air seemed to thicken with their silence. She would probably outlive him by many years, and yet Aragorn felt as if she had been deprived of some quality in life that he was not. To Glorfindel, a lord among elves, the very tone in which she spoken the word "death" seemed impossible to comprehend. Was it something good, some wonderful release, or was it something terrible, some path into a prison whose gates had been shut to his people? To take such a life from any world seemed a horrible thing. Then was death horrible, or was life the horrible chapter of a book many chapters longer?

"We are but leaves," she said then, and all of the company looked to her eyes, though she saw them not, dwelling far away, "bloomed into beauty for but a stolen season. All seasons must end, and all things are but fallen leaves, passed forever into winter, and though spring may come again, the leaves that return are not the leaves than have fallen. Or are they? But always the leaves past have decided the path of fate for those to come, though what way in which those new leaves grow is for their own decision as they seek the sun."

Her eyes returned from their sightless wandering, and seemed to gaze into the very souls of her companions. Suddenly she spoke again, all urgency in her voice. "Nine – nine what?" They had begun to pass under the shadow of a thicket of wood, and echoes ran about them like many following footfalls. 

"The nine great servants of our great enemy," Aragorn touched her shoulder as if to stop her from speaking and yet as if to push her words on.

"Five behind, four await us," she looked to Glorfindel and he nodded his solemn reply.

Suddenly, as if through a gate of light, the road ran out again from the end of the tunnel into the open. There was a sharp incline, and then beyond there was a long flat mile that stretched to the very Ford of Rivendell. Glorfindel stopped to listen behind them, but Caliasar had already told him what he would hear.

"Fly!" he called, "Fly! The enemy is upon us!" He sprang forward, and the white horse leapt away.

They raced down the slope in his trail, and were halfway across the flat when suddenly there was the sound of many horses galloping. Out of the gate in the trees that they had just barely left there appeared a rider cloaked in black upon a great black horse, and he halted as four more of his likeness came to his side. Again Glorfindel called for Frodo to ride, but the hobbit checked the horse to a walk. He drew the long knife that he used as a sword, glaring at the riders as if his hatred alone should be enough to spirit them away.

"Ride on! Ride on!" cried Glorfindel, and then realizing that Frodo alone would do no such thing, he called to Asfaloth instead. At once the great horse sprang away with the swiftness of the very wind. At that same moment the black horses leapt down the hill in pursuit, and from the riders came a terrible cry that shook Caliasar to her very core. It was answered by another, and to their dismay the other four seemed to materialize from the trees and rocks about on their left, two rushing toward Frodo as two made to cut him off from the ford.

The riders behind him fell back, no match for the elf-horse's great speed. But those before him were closing in. How could he make it? Again the shrouded creatures screamed as the white horse leap into the frothing river before them. Never had Caliasar felt such pain. She clasped her hand over her ears, but could not tear her eyes from Frodo. He was across, and Asfaloth reared, neighing his challenge to the Black Riders and their bulking horses below. 

"The Ring! The Ring!" they cried in their fell voices, and their leader urged his wary steed into the water.

"By Elbereth and Luthien the Fair," said Frodo, and she could hardly hear him, "you shall have neither the Ring nor me!" Her held up his sword, but the leader stood in his stirrups and raised up his hand. The sword splinted in a shower of silver and fell to the ground. Asfaloth reared once more and snorted.

At that moment there came a great roaring and rushing, alike to the sound of loud waters rolling many stones. The river before her rose, and down along its course there came a cavalry of waves that seemed in truth to be of white riders upon white horses with frothing manes. The three riders that were still in the midst of the river swiftly disappeared beneath that angry foam, and those who remained on the shore drew back in dismay. 

Their screams pierced Caliasar's ears like blades of ice, and she fell to her knees. These dark creatures were drawing her into their world, and into the Void. She could see their tormented, pale skin, and their eyes blazed coldly, at first not truly distinguishable but with every moment becoming more clear as their screams drew her into their realm. Glorfindel stood before her, and figures wielding flame ran to the waters. But they became like shadows, ever less clear, as the remaining riders became more real to her every terrified sense. She was not used to this world! How was she to anchor herself into this foreign reality?

She longed to close her eyes, struggling for that strength, fraught with the weight of three worlds descending upon her shoulders. Was pain ever more true? She must have screamed, she must have sounded so much like those deadly wraiths that stood before her like a circle of fallen kings long passed away, for Glorfindel at once forgot his task and turned to her, dismayed. He grasped her hand, but she would not be lifted. Bent like a shell void of all structure she watched the riders stare at her with their frozen eyes, thinking her their savior.

She reached out to them as if to push their world away, her full being placed into the syllables of some last great word, some echo of power that must have been known to Nemonlyna, surfacing to her mind as she became slowly crushed between three realities. What voice her companions heard she would have feared to ask them, for Glorfindel at once covered his own ears, and the six riders upon their horses screamed their last as they were buried in the water's white flame. 

And then all was blackness.

***

**Recap:  **WOOHOO! I made it! On to Rivendell! OK, now let's gather the facts. This chapter introduces the Flower of Lyonthel. Will it be important in future chapters? I do wonder… Oh, and Nahalainia is a celestial being. A goddess? No, I'd call her more of an archangel. And Lyonthel will come up again. Hers was a sad tale indeed. Now, just for good measure, was there any romance or the beginning of romance in this chapter? No, there was not. Aragorn and Arwen are staying together. And Frodo? Do be serious. He's practically a baby compared to her. Yes, girl's got a pretty voice. That will be explained better later. 

Yeah, so Cali wins Aragorn's friendship as well as that of Glorfindel and the hobbits. I think you get to see a lot about parts of her character in this chapter – she's kind of childish and can turn the words of anyone either against them or into a game or both. But if you think about it, the elves are kind of childish themselves. She's not so different after all. Anyway, so when Glorfindel was supposed to have been scaring the other riders into the water with the help of his friends and their little flaming sticks, she is being drawn into the reality in which the wraiths dwell because she is not yet well rooted to this world. She falls, and as she tries to stay in the real world she is drawn into the alternative world that she knows best, the Void, and also into the reality of the wraiths. She's being crushed between them, and she screams, Glorfindel is distracted, and trying to get away from the riders Cali screams a word of power that had been taught to Nemonlyna. The horses jump into the water and die, and she goes unconscious yet again. Durn, it sounded so much better up there. :) This chapter was a little condensed, especially at the end, and I was getting a little giddy on their last conversation, so please forgive me. But I really need a) to get some sleep b) to get off of this blasted road, and c) to go purchase a life. Thank you. And once again, I'm sorry this chapter took so long, and hopefully I'll be able to get the next up very soon.


	7. The White Witch

Chapter 6:  The White Witch 

Maybe a day later, no – it's the next morning, before noon, in Rivendell, finally. Oh, by the way, this first part is a memory, coming to Cali in a dream. It really happened. Well, if Cali were real, then this would have been real too. But she's not real, so this really didn't happen. But it really did happen to her. Actually it happened to Nemonlyna and created Cali. Well it didn't really create Cali… (give up folks it will never end). Thank the Lord, we have left the road at last!

***

The color of green assaulted her senses. It was not as it should be – too dark, too dull, and yet too much alive. It seemed like a cruel mockery, a shade of sardonic silence, too much like laughter.

The grass was wet. She sat, crouched, leaning on her hands. She was exhausted, she was sickened, she was brimming with rage – anger that ebbed and flowed like a furious tide within her veins, pummeling her skin without mercy. She looked at her hands. They were red. Red ran over them in tiny rivers, gathering lakes of red in the cup of her palms. Red dripped off of her and flooded the earth. It ran to the water, it fled to the sea, where it would forever taint that vastness with the silent, serene voice of death, with nameless memory whose fallen faces would never be remembered. 

The color of it was too bright, too blinding in a world where all other colors seemed bled of their light. And then even that assaulting red dried and became a dead color as well. An ugly brown that seemed to scream of death; the blood of already forgotten heroes was running over her hands. The blood of men, women, and children. She had failed to save them. Failed to see – failed to see until her eyes were torn open to watch them all die around her a she in turn dealt death to save them. But it was not enough, and yet, too much.

She tired to stand once more. The bodies of horses and oxen and a hundred women and their children lay about her in the savage color of the vale. A baby was crying in the distance, so pitiful in its mewing, not capable of coming to the tormentive realization that his mother would never wake again. And then that too was silenced.

All of them were slain. Every woman whom she had talked with, laughed with, cried with! Every child into whose eyes she had looked and seen the promise of all the world to come lay staring blankly at the sky. Broken vessels, cloven shells lay about her, still warm with the memory of the life that had filled them such a short time ago.

Hideous men walked among the bodies, defiling and pillaging the dead. She yearned to kill them all, bursting her veins with the desire to hear them scream and cry to some god that would never help them, to deliver them from this white witch whose burning sword drew their blood like water forced from a drying well. Was their blood even red? Was it even warm?

But she could not. She could not move. Not fast enough to kill, not well enough to even stand. Her body too was broken, all of her muscles screaming with their pains, cramping and clenching, attacking one another as her own exhaustion drove her mad. They were coming. They had seen her as she tried to stand. They were coming to take her as well. Leave her body there! Let her die! It was not worth the life within it anymore.

They were coming. They had seen her momentary attempt to stand, and they had seen her fall. Now they came – to defile, to torture, to kill. No. No, she could not let them find such victory! But death, sweet death, she deserved her release. Let it be foul to punish her, and then fair to comfort her loss. Let it be!

_No!_ Again that echoing voice of reason, that commanding council of her own heart. _You are not yet finished with this world! You are not finished Nemonlyna!_

No, she was not finished. There was no release, no release by the hands of these murderers! They would never find the victory that they most sought, they would never be free of the Light and its protectors. Never would they drive her life away, and never would they kill this last remaining who could remember those fallen that day. She could not let those eyes that stared at her so emptied of life be lost so completely. She would not let them be forgotten; she could not let them down again.

She could see his face. She could see his wicked eyes, his rough skin twisted with what might have been a putrid smile, or what might have been nothing more than yet another battle-earned deformity. She could have counted his every strand of oily dark hair. In his hand he held a cudgel, a crude attempt at a wooden mace. Yes, he was smiling, appalling yellow teeth like knives revealed as his lips curled in satisfaction. He was coming to kill a woman, and yet just the pleasure of killing was enough.

She clasped her sword, unable to stand but turning to meet him to the face, to make him look into her eyes. But he took no heed – he did not care. His hand rose, the cudgel poised above her head. He moved forward to strike, and she had never been more pleased to witness sheer surprise light upon a person's face. The sword ran him through as if it truly was a burning brand. She pulled back, and let him fall. But the mace was not in his hand.

Time seemed so suspended as she watched it dance toward her in the air. She held up her arm to deflect the blow, and it broke. Her bone splintered with such pain that she could have never helped but let that horrible scream shatter her lungs, riveting the valley with her wordless exclamation of utter, intense agony.

The brown roughness of the cudgel filled her vision. She could trace every separate grain of that coarsely hewn wood. It was oak, and it smelled of blood and sweat and wet earth. It could be no younger than three years cut, darkened by water and somewhat smoothed by use. She would remember that sight forever, for it was the last thing that Nemonlyna would ever see.

***

Caliasar swept her hand out to stop the cudgel as her own memories flooded her dreams. But there was no rough caress of knotted wood, no shock of sudden pain. The trust of her arm continued with no mace to stop it, and hit the smooth corner of some more intricate wooden craft. She woke.

The sound was deafening. A goblet of water rocked gingerly on the table, the sound as terribly loud as the river had been in its rage. It fell over. The glass shattered, and with that torturing blast of painful sound she must have screamed. She must have whimpered horribly, slamming her hands once more over her ears and struggling to be free of the bed in which she had been placed.

A single drop of water, spilled from the goblet, fell to the floor. The sound of it was as if thunder had been captured inside of her ears. She clambered, crawled, fell and crawled again, anything to be free of that so painful noise.

Another drop struck the floor. And another. It shook the very ground, laying the world out before her as if in the wake of lightening. Voices called to one another very near, in a language that she could not have understood if even they had not sounded like the screams of giants.

Another drop fell, and though she could not open her eyes she could see a figure running toward her, his feet falling like the footsteps of a dragon, outlined and unfeatured until he disappeared in silence once more.

Again a drop of water fell. One sound lead to another, and soon she was aware of all the world around her – people walked about with no idea of how much torture they caused her, wind kissing leaves and fluting about the every detail of everything around her like a savage gale. It was too much detail, too many layers. No one thing was clear – all was blended and masked by everything before it. Her ears must have been bleeding, lacing her pale fingers with red.

The figure knelt before her, grasping her wrists and calling her name. What's worse, he had pulled her hands away from her ears, his calls shredding her mind into fragments of sanity. She must have whimpered again, the sound lost in yet another shock of pain. Dripping water, the dripping water would kill her.

He gripped her shoulders then, and shook her slightly, calling her name in desperation. She wanted to know who he was, to tell him how much his voice sliced her ears. She wanted to see him, to truly see him. It was a breathless battle with her own mind, screaming within that the pain of it all would be the end. At last, with that burning thought, she forced open her eyes.

The sound faded away. All sound faded away. Blackness enveloped her in its cold peace. She could feel his long hands still on her shoulders. But she could not see.

"Glorfindel?" her voice was sharp though it was but a whisper.

"Caliasar –"

"Tell me, you are Glorfindel?!" She reached up, searching for his face. Had she ever been so afraid before, so lost in terrified panic? So lost in her own darkness?

"Yes, yes I am Glorfindel." He took her hand, releasing his grip on her shoulders. He had never sounded so fraught with concern.

"I cannot see you," she said, a pitiable smile curling her lips, only then beginning to return to their color. 

"What do you mean, Caliasar? What is wrong?" he said, almost pleading her to be well. "Summon Elrond!" he called to those behind him when she did not answer, and then spoke again in his own elven-tongue.

"No!" she took back her hand, blinking wildly as she pressed her temples. "It was a dream! I'm alright, it was naught but a dream!"

"You are injured?" he asked her, speaking as softly as his voice could be forced, "You are in need of care."

"No!" Caliasar said again, struggling for calm within her own mind. Slowly it seeped back into her torn consciousness, and began to mend the cracks with its serenity. At last, as eons waxed and waned about her, sight returned. She looked up into his face, his eyes so close to hers that she could almost taste the bitter fear that frothed there, waiting for her to say some word as a lance to slay it. 

"It was only a dream," she shook her head softly as she spoke her whispered words, ducking away from him and springing to her feet. She walked across the room by sudden impulse, and looked out through a great opening that led to a small terrace onto all the foreign and beautiful morning world below. "I woke from a dream and was startled, not knowing were I am. My hand hit the table, and the goblet broke. I was panicked by the sound of it, as only a dream as mine would make a mind to be. Where am I? This is Rivendell?"

"Yes," Glorfindel said, not yet certain that she was well. The elves that stood behind him drew their eyes wide as she turned about once more, seeming more than startled themselves by her every quality. "You are in Rivendell."

"It is morning. But it was just past noon when we reached the Ford. I was only surprised – I am well, I swear to you." She tried to smile once more, but her face would not obey.

"If we are to speak of surprise, then it is for your companions most of all to speak. You frightened us at the Ford, my lady, and here have frightened me again. What of you is not laughter and joy is fear – what are we to think of that?"

"What you will, for I cannot tell you what to think," she sighed. "But I will explain that at least to you someday, though I do not find now the time. It lingers too near – I would not dare to speak of such things, not until I am grown more accustomed to this earth."

Suddenly she remembered the goblet. "I cannot repay the damage of such a thing," she held the broken stem of the cup in her hand. It looked as ancient as the very water that it had once contained.

"The answers to your mysteries would be payment enough for its loss," he took the stem of glass from her hand and brushed his fingers gently across the smooth length of it. "Indeed, what things you could tell the lords of our realm I am certain would make this ancient glass unworthy of your hand to break it."

"If such things are possible to speak, then they shall be spoken. But I am well; do not worry for me. The concerns of your world seem far greater."

Glorfindel stared at her intently, his eyes like the fingers of a reader's hand as he follows the words of a book not easily read. "Very well, there is much time for talk once you have been well rested. But if you feel so well, then you will not reject to being cleaned up at once. I will summon a maid to draw you a bath, and then you will sleep. I shall visit again when you are more composed." He waved away the elves that stood at the door, and once they were gone he turned to give her a victorious smile.

She was trapped. Sighing she could not help but smile. "I have taught you too much."

"That, my lady, was a device of my own. You merely helped in its achieving. Sleep well."

"Well indeed." Caliasar turned back to the open world before her, but the sound of Glorfindel's retreating footsteps never came. She glanced briefly over her shoulder at him, and he was watching her as if she were some foreign bird that had landed on his windowsill. Stepping to lean against the cool stone railing she sighed once more. "So this is Rivendell? It would make such a fine painting. I hear often that a painter must stalk beauty like a hunter if they are ever to capture it. I have never believed that, for if such a thing were true, than any painting of this place would be a lie."

"You are a painter then, among so many other talents?" the elf stepped forward as if to join her, but stopped suddenly short and clasped his hands behind him.

She smiled softly and shook her head. "No, sadly. I will sketch at times, but I cannot paint. The – colors…"

"You fear that you will not paint them as they are." Now why was his voice so somber? The smile had faded from his lips, and she felt suddenly cold in the brisk autumn air.

"Yes," she said. "It seems a folly to paint when one cannot bring truth into their works. What if a child should pick the painting up in some many odd years, and think then that a place such as this looked some other way? It is a torment to my heart."

Glorfindel narrowed his eyes as he watched her long fingers play over the age-worn carvings of the stone. She was always that way, always exploring the details of her environment, glancing into every dark corner and examining every black cave. Had that not been a quality he had wished himself to have? Well, perhaps he had not wished, perhaps he had only thought of what beautiful things might be found where defiling feet had not yet trod. But did she see the dangers in the darkness as well, or was her heart finding more peril in the light? And why indeed did the future grieve her so much, when she seemed ever at peace with the thought of death? But no, she was thinking always of children it seemed, the children of the future, who were the future, and who bred the future. Smiling to her he turned at once and left, having much to think about, and for once in his long life feeling that he did not have enough time.

***

Caliasar managed to chase away the elven maids that had been sent to her and soaked for many hours in the bath, though she was then even less inclined to favor water. The world seemed utterly calm and still as she let herself be enveloped by the warm waters, and if she closed her eyes it felt as if she were home again and lying in the sun. In the water's embrace all time and sense of "here" was gone, and the mind could wander paths untraveled or many walked, finding no boundaries in the lines of time or in the fleshly constraints that the waking world was forced to obey. In that realm she was without name and without past or future, but simply as she was, and unjudged for even that.

And then her lungs would begin to burn and she would be forced to surface once more, shoved away by that more splendid realm once more into her own cold reality. Unable to face that waking any longer she rose and drained the water away, freeing it to be as it should in the vast calm of the ocean once more. It was not hers to hold for even those few moments of peace, as it told her in its whispered screams that slid between her fingers though she grasped with all her might.

She let herself be dressed in a long gown of white, for though it was a single skirted dress she could not make her fingers remember how to let their movements tie such constraint. Her old garments she aloud to be cleaned before stowing them under her bed, along with her staff which Glorfindel had cared enough not to take. Why she was dressed even in such plain garb she did not know, for it was obvious that the elves intended for her to stay in that room and not leave.

The room was pleasant and airy, which seemed even more a mockery. The ceiling was high and all that furnished it was draped with endless ages of memory, each carving and every curve filled with the voices of their makers and those whose fingers had brushed their surfaces with love, and fear, and hope. Their voices were soft and flowed about her in an endless river of undecipherable song. It was her sweet and tender torment.

There was no lock on the door and no glass in the windows, but she did not dare to try their keepers' hospitality and attempt to leave. Once clad in this manner she slipping into the bed as the elves insisted, and only when they had gone did she sigh and go to the balcony, mindlessly toying with her hair. She was indeed tapped, like a bird captured by a child who wished to know how it could fly. But how indeed was a bird to fly when locked in such a cage?

Looking up she saw at once a dormant candle sitting cold in its holder, and smiled softly to herself.

***

Glorfindel turned yet another page in the ancient book that lay in his hand, and let his eyes rove over the alien map with little hope. He wished dearly to speak with Elrond, but the Lord of Imladris was long in the process of healing the hobbit Frodo. Perhaps he should speak with Erestor, at least. Perhaps together they might be able to corner Gandalf.

She did not seem ill, nor injured in any way, but Glorfindel could not help but feel that she was in some way afflicted with an evil too much for his comprehension alone. Though he had wandered far and lived long, the elf-lord could simply not understand all of the terrible things that lay just beyond the borders of his peoples' immortality. Or were they so very terrible – were they great gifts that had been denied to the elves, firstborn of the free races? He would most likely never know of that, either, and it seemed a sorry blow.

He himself had carried her hither, for she was like a feather in his arms when he was certain she should be more. Even the wisest of his companions had thought her dead, for they could not feel the shallow breath that she drew, and they could not hear the torrent of whispered words that spilled forth of her lips like water from a broken vase, leaving the flower it held to die. But the power of Rivendell was true, and soon her breathing had eased and she had fallen at last into true slumber.

But in her waking he read more than the reaction of a startled child. What was it she had said 'as only a dream as mine would make a mind to be'? Were her dreams then of the elven sort, more living than life itself, more true than memories of truth? Or were her dreams always nightmares, bringing her to awaken full of strife, trembling in warmth and flinching from the most friendly hand?

He simply had to find Gandalf, at least. Perhaps the Istari had more answers than he. But as he closed the book in his hand and quickened pace having now a destination for his feet, there came three elf-women down the corridor toward him, talking amongst themselves as if they had seen some great and astonishing thing. Noting at once that they were the three who had been waiting upon Caliasar, he lifted his hand in greeting to stop them. "Is something amiss?" 

The younger of the elves before him clasped a hand over her smiling lips, but her elders were eager indeed to tell their tale. "The white-lady bid us away. She is such an odd thing! Had she any less courtesy I think she would have chased us out like a dog guarding a chicken house, as if we were foxes! But a dog who guards too well will starve if it bites a giving hand, so let her starve! If she hasn't already, so thin and gangling as she is. Where ever did you find such a thing?"

Glorfindel's glare silenced their laughter, but they could not be swayed. "You should not speak such of a guest in the house of Lord Elrond."

"A prisoner, you mean, and who knows what aught she is? But if you think us rude, then go and look in on her yourself! But do be prepared – I think she is a witch," the younger elf returned, and Glorfindel could not help but smile as her companions curled their fair noses at her. Witch indeed.

"Very well, have a mind and summon Erestor for me, and I shall take her something to eat, if you will not. Her road has been hard as any other of this company, and I will not have a _guest_ be let to starve when she has helped us all so very much. Be away, and find Gandalf too, if you will."

Dismissed, the elf-women walked several steps before they dared to burst once more into prattling talk. What was it about the world, that when any knew thing should be discovered the elves would make such a foolish bother? But then a sudden vision of elvish foxes and Caliasar a vicious hound raced across this mind. And at that the elf-lord too was lost to a fountain of very un-lord-like – indeed, un-elf-like – laughter.

**Recap:**  Well, that was a little freaked out. You have to realize that the dream event was all in her point of view, and to her it seemed much worse than it did to the elves. That's why I used the "must have" thing so much. To the elves it probably just looked like she was having a bad headache and was freaking out about the glass breaking. That's why they didn't seem too awful disturbed, and if they were disturbed at all it was just because they had probably never seen a person with a bad headache before. She was just startled, and you know how every sound seems magnified when you have a really bad headache – well I figured that for her it would be even worse. Not to mention that she hadn't completely shook off the feeling of the wraith reality yet. That's pretty much the just of it. And as for the end part there, I was getting a little too much caffeine in my system at the time, so don't hold it against me.


	8. The Great Wheel

**Chapter 7:  The Great Wheel **

Sorry I took so long with this chapter, but report cards had me doing extra work and my Language Arts teacher wanted me to read this book… Anyway, now here is where I have to do some adjusting. Frodo is supposed to be out cold for four nights and wake up on the fourth day. That I can deal with. But Frodo was also supposed to go to his feast that night, but I moved it back about two days, saying that he was still too weak. Hey, I have my liberties. Then I made all of the elves who would be summoned to the council come on that first extra day, and the dwarves come on that second extra day. Boromir will come the next day (the day after the feast). The night when all the dwarves come is when the feast takes place. Poor Boromir has to miss it. And then I moved the council back a day. Sorry again, but it had to be done! They're there for months, so a few shifted days won't hurt too much.

***

Glorfindel knocked on the great wooden door and received no reply. If she was sleeping, then he was no elf but a fool indeed. He pushed the door open enough to step in, and found that he was correct. She sat upon the bed with her slender legs crossed beneath her, those perilous eyes trained away from the confines of the chamber to watch the world bellow from which she had been separated. The sight brought a falcon to his mind, chained to a post with eyes bright, wings unclipped but having given up all hope of escape long before. How long would it be before the eyes dulled too, no longer seeking freedom when certain that it would never be attained, but drawn inward with no further regard to life? But no, she would not break with slow bending. It would be a snap, loud and swift, and she would lunge at that chain until it broke or until she lay dead. But freedom – no, of the many things that she was willing to give, her freedom was not of that list. And if she wished it not given, no one could take it from her for long.

The elven-maids had clothed her in a dress of flowing white, and it seemed far too bright for her fair darkness. She had tied her hair into a loose braid, but with its jagged lengths and sheer abundance most had escaped to flow gracefully over her broad shoulders once more. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her eyes seeing beyond that world unto what paths he did not know. She seemed a dangerous creature there, like a snake basking in the shadows, as if nothing before her was worth even the threaten of a strike. 

But strangest of all was that the room, then drawn toward the eve, was golden-lit with the dance of intoxicating fire, gathered about her like a congregation swarming to the feet of a mountain carved to the motionless beauty of some wintry fae. Candles by the dozen let their light sway as one, all sizes and shapes in which they came merging into one great and brilliant half-light, swathing the room with a cloak of mysterious, miraculous, alluring intensity of power more pure and more dark than the powers of man and elf combined. It rested over her and yet about her it flowed like a sighing stream, the tributary of some far greater course. But it could no longer find the paths through which it should flee ocean-bound, and there welled at her feet. 

The flames licked the air, their warmth drifting up in a soft blaze as he stepped into the room, and at once he felt as if he had disturbed some great dance, as if he'd stayed the weaving of a pattern bearing the futures of all, and that this disturbance would forever mar that perilous tapestry with a knot, a snag, a stitch hardly visible to the eye. And yet, it would change the course of the weaving forever. _Each step we take rewrites the course of our future. Each hand lain at the loom will change the pattern of its weaving. Each disturbance in the lines of time will make it change, and it is to the nature of the one who weaves whether it be a blemish or a stitch of beauty, but all shall be beauty once it is added at last to the greatest tapestry of all._

Glorfindel blinked and found that she had turned to him, her eyes restored in bright vastness, a smile lingering on her lips though it seemed the frown of one whose life was a tapestry blemished more my blood and tears. His was a welcome stitch of beauty, and she closed her eyes once more as he stood amazed.

_You speak words of silent thought?_ He asked her then without voice, but she did not stir, and he heard nothing further but the growing melodies of night. The power ebbed away as its work was lain aside for another time, and with more awareness he noted the chill that had crept into the autumn air. Winter was not so far as the mind allowed one to wish. But the dancing fairy lights of the candles flickered their warmth about still and flared as a breeze caressed their flames as a living hand could not. Of this she was jealous, and though the thought had never come to him before, Glorfindel realized that he was as well.

"You take pleasure in the light of moon and sun and star alike, but now I see fire also brings you peace. How did you light them all, and why did you not sooner call?" he asked when words spoken seemed to become sufferable once more.

She nodded deftly to a bear space on the floor were there lay a small disk with three curved blades and beside it a small stone. "The candles were about. The stone was loose in the baths. The blade is mine. Fire does not bring me peace, but in candles there is light and warmth and woven mystery. It lets me to think less of cages and more of those few days in which my life has permitted me contentment." Then seeming to wake from a lingering dream she smiled. "Hello, Glorfindel. I did not know I was to call." Once again he wondered what fair language dwelled behind her fairer accent.

Avoiding many candles as he stepped the elf-lord came to set a great basket on the table by her bed, and in it were many fruits and breads and a flask of clear water. He could not help but think how hungry she must have been, and yet she had said nothing of it through all of their journey together. They had offered her food as they ate, but she had refused, saying that if she ate anything at all she would be hungrier for it and be forced to pick off hobbits by the pair. She had also refused any drink from Glorfindel's leather flask, then saying nothing but shaking her head slightly as if he could have not a single clue as to why such would not be a good idea.

Taking an apple blushed with hues of both red and green in the cup of her palm she encircled it with her long fingers and made a low noise in her throat like the beginnings of laughter. "For me?" Caliasar cocked a brow and glanced up at him wryly. "You are too kind."

She bit into the soft rind, waiting for no answer to eat. He watched her for a moment, not yet assured that she was well. Glancing up once more she shook her head and wiped a trail of juice away from her chin. "I am fine, Glorfindel. It was only a dream. I feel much recovered now."

The elf could not help but laugh. "I will believe you, for no ill creature could ever eat so swiftly, indeed, you eat like a hobbit."

"No," she smiled and quickly swallowed, "hobbits eat like this everyday, and at least four times a day. I have not eaten for a month." She glanced up at the ceiling as if counting in her head. "A week. But it felt a month and a day. I have a right to eat like a hobbit."

"I grant you that. If you are in need of anything more, you need only send for me. I am sorry that you must be confined to this room, but until Elrond has had audience with you it is for the best. But he is busy tending to Frodo at the present, and he will come as soon as he may."

"As it should be," she returned. "He is well?"

"I do not yet know. But I doubt very much that he is as well as you." The jest was unheeded and Caliasar blanched, if any but an elf could tell, and he wondered what she could have possibly thought as she looked at his face and pondered his unsmiling concern.

But not long after Glorfindel had gone with his many words of comfort, Caliasar threw herself across the bed and lay staring at the ceiling beams very ill at ease. Thoughts ran their silent course, and as the night neared full she found herself at last with drifting thoughts of nothing, her eyes roving the shadowed features of the chamber anew, watching candles begin to sputter and die. And outside she could hear the first faint whispers of clear singing voices, rising with words unknown.

Suddenly an object shrouded in the darkness not far inside the door caught her attention. Staring for a moment she let her resting muscles make their protests to remain, but in the end they were overcome by her curiosity and she rose. Gathering candles as she went Caliasar could tell clearly that it was a satchel – perhaps Glorfindel had dropped it, which was indeed an amusing thought. If an elf had ever dropped anything, he certainly wouldn't forget about it.

Setting the candles up once more and taking a deep breath of their dying vapors she glanced about to find any that she might have forgotten and found none. That left the mysterious bag to be explored, and the very thought brought her breath to silence and her feet to stealth. Grasping it by the long strap she lifted it carefully up and crawled once more onto the bed. Lifting the fastenings and throwing back the flap she let her brows raise and jaw drop without notice or care. In it there was a book of blank pages bound in soft brown leather, and also a sleeve of loose parchment that was larger and stronger in make. 

But first of all her fingers closed about a thin wooden box, made smooth with age and speaking of ancient libraries and inks long ago used. Opening it she found several good quills and three wells of ink, but also there were many small bottles filled with colors, some vibrant and others dark, glowing in so many hues that she could never have known all of their names. Resting on top of all there was a small slip of parchment, reading simply:  _The colors will come._ It was signed _Glorfindel_ with many a flourish, in a hand both flowing and bold. 

She sighed deeply, holding the paper up to what was left of the light. One could tell much of a person simply by the writing of his hand. He would have been far better to have excluded the note altogether if he thought of besting her. There was a falter in the flourishes beneath his name, as if he had suddenly remembered that he was writing a note and not a letter. But he had continued, seeming to think it no harm among friends. Placing the note carefully within the box once more she took a quill and dipped it adroitly into the ink, gasping a piece of parchment and scrawling the word _Glorfindel_ across the corner in her own fair hand.

The hours grew, and as morning threatened upon the eaves of the world she silently settled the quill back again and lidded the well. Her fingers were laced with ink, and as she placed the parchment back into the sleeve her fingerprints could clearly be marked. But the proud face of the elf who had taken shape upon it did not seem to mind.

***

Morning dawned pale and grew to vibrance and beauty. The world still turned about Caliasar, as if she were the hub of a great wheel. Ever she turned with the spokes, watching them pass, swinging by with sighing steps, but she could not leave to join them in their journeying paths. She was drawn with them wherever they chose, and was becoming dizzy of their endless circuits about her. But just as a wheel's hub, she could not leave for the spokes clasped her to them, and only through their breaking could she be free. So far her wheel was fair, and she would tolerate it so long as she must.

The days after brought many things much the same as those before. New elven-maids were summoned and brought with them what food they would and another shift much the same as that which she had worn before it. Caliasar was forced to leave her ornaments in the wrap of her old garments, as the constant change of clothing would have been too much a bother for them all. The new air that touched her long-hidden skin was harsh at first and cold, but soon she had become used to it, though the marks of her arm rings had not gone away. Still she wore the Flower of Lyonthel about her throat, but nothing else of her past adorned her now save the vast vigilance of her eyes.

Many names were given to her it seemed, but she took little heed and heard little of the elvish words that flowed about her. But as for the names of other people that she was entrusted with, there were few. An elf to whom Glorfindel gave the name Erestor had come once, and the two had spoken softly in their tongue as she spoke to another. His callings were many as well, but to her he was to be known as Gandalf. He was not an elf, but of all things a wizard (to this she had laughed long until she realized that they had been serious), and it seemed odd to see a man so wizened and gray among the eternal youth of the elves. His questions were few and vague as if he did not know what to ask, and she had found in her boredom a way to make them all leave laughing as well, sooner, as she had hoped. The interrogation could wait until it mattered. She could hear the elves sing and laugh far below her in the open world, and no matter how beautiful their voices were it always seemed as if they mocked her.

But not all of her visitors were of that kind. Glorfindel came every so many hours to look upon her, seeming to think, being the one who had brought her there, that she was of his charge. The hobbits Merry and Pippin came often, but Sam would not leave Frodo's side. They would talk for hours, telling her stories and receiving the occasional story in return. They always ate before they came, for Caliasar did not keep much food at hand (only a few bowls of fruit, a few loaves of bread, a bit of honey and a few flagons of water), and all the great amount of eating they did while in her company they called "filling up the corners." She seemed not to hold much with meat, eating only a bit of white bird flesh or fish every now and then when it was given to her.

Aragorn would come also sometimes, sitting in a corner and smoking a pipe as he listened to their tale-weaving and games. Glorfindel would stay to listen at times as well, and they would share a glance every now and then as if speaking without words. The two never did seemed to find an end to her ability to have them feel both amused and amazed. She was introduced to an elf named Arwen of whom Aragorn seemed to be very fond, and though Caliasar found her rather distant they became friendly enough to at least enjoy each other's company for the time in which the unusually dark elf had been present. Other than that she was not given the name of any elf who waited upon her, all of them seeming to feel a touch uncomfortable when about. She hadn't felt like such a burden for many years, and couldn't help but pine as her eyes found the world before the balcony once more.

***

On the fourth day of her captivity, however, Glorfindel came into the room with more than his usual soft amusement. He glanced with a raised brow at the hobbits where they sat at the foot of Caliasar's bed, eating a few pieces of fruit as they told her of some event from their beloved Shire. He then glanced at her, and she returned his smile almost curiously.

"Frodo has awakened, though he is still weak. Elrond was able to find the shard that was still within the wound, and he has begun to recover. Your friend should be as well as he may become, inside of a few days."

The hobbits were overjoyed, jumping up at once to go and see their friend. Caliasar watched them leave and sighed. "I am glad that your lord was able to save him."

"As am I. But also this means that Elrond will see to _you_ soon," he smiled, watching her face light with his words, "though what we are to do with you I am not certain."

She smiled, leaning back against the headboard. She had been told that Elrond had seen to her when first she came, but being unconscious at the time she did not remember it. Uncertain as to whether she should be worried or rejoicing, she sighed once more.

"Will I be trapped within this room forever, if he does not receive what answers he wishes? Even I do not know all such things."

Glorfindel seemed taken aback by her distress. "I do not doubt that he will find in you enough trust to let you be free to wander through Rivendell. But what he might decide is to be done after I have told you I cannot say."

"Then it must be enough for now," she waved her hand submissively. "Perhaps I will find some peace in being permitted the use of my feet once more."

Glorfindel sighed and turned to go. What indeed were they to do with her? Though he knew not why, the elf-lord shivered at the thought.

***

**Recap:**  Here I think you can better see the competition that Glorfindel and Cali are carrying on. It's not really orthodox, but it is a competition of some sort. You can also see that she is pretty powerful, probably in the same way that Glorfy is, because a person can feel it whenever she's just sitting and thinking. Then there's a lot of fluff that I'd wrote in about ten minutes like a month ago. It isn't very good, and I might rewrite it someday, but I'm too drained to worry about it now. The next chapter might take a while too, because it has the "Cali Council" in it and I'm still not certain how the story should go from here. -sigh- And please tell me if I got the timing thing wrong. I don't think I'm thinking straight tonight.


End file.
